Poem #10 Where the Words Go

Red eyes and stubborn voices


I wonder through hallways, yet I have no choices;

for there are no doors, just only plaster;

it is the truth that I must’ve been after.

Strolling through dreams yet I only hear laughter,

I sit at my table and I write with pen,

I dally in verses, choruses, until my words deepen

and it is here in the words that I found a friend.

He cackles at errors and spelling mistakes,

and I wonder how far of a journey we’ll take;

so the old man flicks through my pages

muttering of places lost in the ages,

of old maidens who pranced on velvet stages.

He whispers of streets built of gold,

and plazas livid with people both young and old

of vast summers which never knew no cold,

and he tells me of the Gods high in the mountains,

and  the queer folk who sipped from amethyst  fountains.

I can’t help but asking, “What does this mean”

What would I care if the grass were blue, and the sky green?

The old man laughs and passes me a grin,

he tells me to lighten up and and let my dreams open,

I awake with a fresh draft and a chest full of pride,

another victory with my muse right by my side.


About Damian Rucci

D.F. Rucci is a writer, blogger, and a musician from a small town in New Jersey. View all posts by Damian Rucci

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