Free to Write

He was always roaming about on the streets and going into bars and stores, to observe what was happening in town. Cheap whiskey, once in a while, didn’t deter him on his quest. Watching him, one would think him to be with the secret service, CIA, or special forces of some kind, but he was only a writer who was depositing memory coins in the safety-deposit box of his mind. Then, when he took those coins out, he never hesitated to sacrifice truth for beauty. For that reason, his poetry was often right on target, as his hunches never tricked him.

Yet, his latest production is a storm that is brewing and making him depressed, for he doesn’t know how to end it.

Saintly like a dove, thrown to the margin,
voiceless, expelled, struggling in vain,
a homeless man asks for my sacrifice.

Such mental anguish, this not knowing how to finish a poem! Although I think, that poem is already finished. Now, how shall I let him know that?