The season of war. The season of dreaming.
I have a tale about ignorance, getting old and being a poet.
A story about a man. He couldn’t stop Father Time
from sweeping his feet out from under him. His age set him
in his ways of single mindedness. The man was a spellbinder with words.
In a way, he cast incantations on those who chose to read his works.
His numbered days dwindled. Searching for truths like buried treasure,
he would pleasure himself with his stories of struggles he never had
or had worn on his sleeve. He would grieve the lost of his innocence
through the hands of indifference, in deference to his vacuous head.
Instead, he just wrote the words that had been born of his pain,
words danced in his brain but became embattled when exposed.
His flaws became apparent. There was no bliss in his ignorance.
At times he took to vocalize his thoughts, the local rabble would taunt.
They would attack his mindness for as long as he was speaking .
In days of wisdom and of madness, he found the meaning of ignorance.
People thought we survived these things by hiding in a bar.
I survived the war by hiding in a library.
Nary a soul would join me or chose to read my words.
I’m a spellbinder, in a way!
© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2017