Why have I not written poetry?
Perhaps is is the inevitable siren call of cynicism that comes with age and marriage.
Perhaps it is the descent into daily life that takes me far away from my heart, my soul, and leads me to the monotony that can be peaceful, spiritual, but more often than not, ends up inspiring complacency.
It is the lovers
The seducers that lurk in stone-clad alleyways
of French streets, their smoke
the only flags they wear
lulled to sleep by the constant itch
I follow the smells of worlds within
and promises without
The lovers of words, of fabric, of music
Their heady competitions used to leave me breathless
And now I wander listless, forlorn, unable to choose
I am the homeless artist
I am the seduced