He had a charming voice,
60 in age, 20 in manner.
His pace was frantic, his words pedantic, and his collection romantic.
He spoke with the urgency of hummingbird wings,
And walked with the lankiness of vines heavy with fruit.
His mood was volatile,
Like a heated chemical reaction,
Quick to spur at the slightest inconvenience.
His words were loud, sharp, and resembled a buffoon.
He had everything he wanted,
Nights at the Opera,
Property overlooking the city,
Paintings worthy of a museum,
But I do not envy him.
Just as he made haste to insult,
His eyes lit up with child-like wonder
When it came to the dream that escaped the horizon below his foundation.
His life was not based on love or people,
But on the things I was looking at.
He may have had everything he wanted,
Or thought he did,
But nothing he needed
And no place to put his soul.
I pittied him really.
His only friends were the portraits starring back at him,
His only love was the work he did to get them,
And his only home existed in parcels and blank checks.
I do not envy the man living in the bird-street house,
If I were him, I'd envy myself.
YOU ARE READING
An Ode to Muses to Polyhymnia
PoetryThis poetry collection explores loneliness, theology, Biblical characters, depression, heartbreak, and disappointment. It's a good read for someone going through a bad time, but surprisingly hopeful.
