I have given what I knew to give <br /> placed my 'x' on the written page <br /> yet the written words there have proven to be incomprensible <br /> to those I had written them for. <br /> <br /> I place fruit on the table <br /> for mouths which sour <br /> and see them brown-spot and fade; <br /> <br /> <br /> I lift my heart strings <br /> allow my music to sing <br /> and yet receive back only half notes <br /> but I none the less complete my songs <br /> in my own head; lay them out allowing their blood to let. <br /> <br />Mark my pages lonelier than they should be <br />for consummation and soul-singing is sometimes that goal which eludes <br />and the fault lies with no one, except blind chance and cringing solitude. <br /> <br />So like Pan we all sometimes play our pipes, wander in the woods <br />hoping yet <br />our songs will resonate a yore <br />in time <br />among those souls <br />who wander the woods of life <br />after we are gone. <br /> <br />Til then <br /> let's take solace <br /> in lonely climes and solitary writings <br /> comforted only by our own song <br /> even if we are the only ones whom <br /> by them <br />are heard, <br />heeded <br />and loved.<br /><br />Lonnie Hicks<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/my-pipes-are-still-the-poets-lament/
