The Poet



You beg of me my inmost thoughts, you plead
That I should bare my wounds, and show the scars
So you will not have to suffer pain, nor heed
The wind, nor bruise your heart on shattered star,
You think to wrest from me the lessons learned,
And you not lift a book, nor turn a leaf,
You hope to dread the fire, where I was burned,
You wish to weep and yet avoid the grief,
You come to me for words that pregnant bear
Your child of life, a midwife all you be,
You stand outside my agony, not share
A single pain, yet take the child from me.

*

Eileen Cameron Henry
date unknown*
 
 

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