I would like to play
The part of the poet,
The artist,
The bon vivant.

I would sit in a darkened corner,
Drink in one hand
And a cigar on the other,
A pretentious trench coat mannequin
Merging into the scenery
Of intellectual debauchery.

Smooth jazz
Cigarette smoke
And Marxist literature
Would fill the room and souls
Tying everyone together
In the atmosphere of discontent.

I am seldom discontent.
Neither am I a smoker
Much less a Marxist.

I wish I were an artist,
A bohemian of sorts,
That saw life as the tapestry
And dramatic tragedy
Everyone claims it to be.

I have never seen the tallest mountains,
The lushest forests or deepest oceans,
I have never seen the face of God
Or felt the punishments of His wrath.

I am not a character of tragedy
Or a harbinger of beauty.
I am not a thousand stories
Or a poet for that matter.

I am just a man
Under the shadow of a dream,
Overlooking from afar
The silhouette of an artist
Sitting in a darkened corner.

Part-time poet, full-time dreamer. I write in search of meaning, whatever that means.