On the wings of our poems

I loved a man once, when i was young

who said he knew how to fly

and i stared up at his lonely eyes

and knew he was telling no lie

so everyday, my summer of twelve

i asked to know more if this lie

to know how a girl, so simple as i,

could ever learn to fly.

and he stroked my hand,

that lonely man

and guided me towards the shore.

i felt so safe there in his arms

and never wanted anything more.

we faced the sandy Virginia coast

hands still clasped so tight

and he said something that until this day

has not ceased to cross my mind.

the lonely man there with my heart

he seemed to pull me close,

said, "Love of mine, a poet's heart

is never truly alone.

and Darling, when you are older you'll see

the truth in the oats i've sown."

and i looked at him, the lonely man

as he carried on that way

his gaze met mine but once or twice

before i quickly turned away.

"Love of mine, a poet's mind

is never truly alone.

We have power beyond all else

that the chains of love can never hold.

And Darling, when i tell you that

i do know how to fly

i mean it only in the figurative sense

for neither Saint nor Lord am i.

But i find that when i quiet my soul

the words dance across my page

and the poem, it forms with wisdom that is

broad beyond my age."

and my lonely poet, he walked on

his legs buried beneathe the ocean.

But still as he drifted, his voice went on,

his hope and faith, every stoic emotion, he said,

"Love of mine, you need only a pen

for such bears a poet's soul."

And as he drifted father away,

those eyes, they did grow cold

"A poet, my Darling, finds flight in their words

and looks naught towards the changing sky

for on the wings of our poems-"

and he drowned in this

"do we poets learn to fly."

and i carried his tears

for all these years

nor could i forget the eyes

of that lonely man

with the gentle hands

who taught my poet's heart to fly.