What’s the point
When all that’s asked
Are memories
Of days gone past?
This isn’t why
The poet writes;
He writes for, rightly,
What is right.
But play the puppet
One frame more
And give a show
Of which they’re sure.
These empty words
Will over soon,
And you can live
A writer’s ru’n.

Or…

Maybe falsehoods
Written down
Are no more real
Than playing clown
To entertain
The enter’d few
That care enough
To hear from you.
The only point
To write that song
Is for them all
To sing along.
We only ask for
Eyes and ears;
They justify,
Or death, we fear.

© Blake Leitch November 4, 2013