A Peddler of Words

A Peddler of Words

I am a peddler of words, emotions
clanging like pans on a cart, pick one,
or two if you’d like.  I have more
where they came from.  There are many ghosts,
and I’m the psychic with a pen, come in,
do come in.  And I will write your words,
my friend.  But who shall read them?
Who will recognize your words I write?

Will your loved one notice mention of the fight,
the one before you died?  Will the lament
of mother-loss bring tears to orphans' eyes? 
You, who are finally sober, must you apologize,
as deep beneath your grave your body lies.
Who is left behind? A child, perhaps, a wife? 
Will these words become a balm
to soothe a restless life?  Or will these words be
salt to rub upon their wounded skin? 

Do you comprehend, these words you have me write
cannot be taken back?  I have no choice who reads them.
Are you sure you want to pay, your peace the price for words
you whisper in my ear?  In ink, they will be written
for eternity, while memories and loved ones
will someday melt away.  But do not fret, my customer,
your words I’ll gladly write, for somewhere,
there’s someone who needs to read
the words you have me write. So go forth to the light,
dear muse, the poem's done at last. Some other
souls are waiting and I must complete their task.

I am a peddler of words, emotions
clanging like pans on a cart, pick one,
or two if you’d like.  What is it, dear muse,
you wish for me to write?