poet at the corner cafe'

I see a man sitting at the corner café.

He sits there almost every day

Contemplating few lucid times

In a long life that’s passed on by

I see him there even on a cold winter’s eve

Kept warm from the steam of a Guatemalan dream

That rises up…like the ghost he faces

And vanishes …like the empty spaces

He tries to fill up, one line at a time

Writing poetry for no one, searching for rhymes

And words to express how he’s lived a lie

How he’s nothing more than a boy who died

Long before the beginning of time

And not the time that begins with the light

Or even the Word that made everything right

But the time that begins when he started the fight

To forget who he is, and just live his life

Always explaining and dying inside

Living a life that’s not even his

Holding it together, just starting to miss

His soul that’s a baby that was never born

But lies still in his heart, so let us all mourn

For the child that lies in the heart of us all

That chose to die, instead of facing the fall

And heartache that comes through the long dark day

Then the night comes at the corner café 

And he writes like a demon, and closes his eyes

And dreams of before the beginning of time

Then his heart comes alive, though it’s dead inside

But for one single moment the dead will all rise

And he writes like an angel who just learned to fly

Then he opens his eyes, and the memory dies

And he continues on, just living his lie

But I like to think he’ll always try

To remember the child every day

Through the poetry he writes and contemplates

While dreaming and watching the world go by

Sitting at the corner café