I have given what I knew to give
placed my 'x' on the written page
yet the written words there have proven to be incomprensible
to those I had written them for.
I place fruit on the table
for mouths which sour
and see them brown-spot and fade;
I lift my heart strings
allow my music to sing
and yet receive back only half notes
but I none the less complete my songs
in my own head; lay them out allowing their blood to let.
Mark my pages lonelier than they should be
for consummation and soul-singing is sometimes that goal which eludes
and the fault lies with no one, except blind chance and cringing solitude.
So like Pan we all sometimes play our pipes, wander in the woods
hoping yet
our songs will resonate a yore
in time
among those souls
who wander the woods of life
after we are gone.
Til then
let's take solace
in lonely climes and solitary writings
comforted only by our own song
even if we are the only ones whom
by them
are heard,
heeded
and loved.
Lonnie Hicks
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/my-pipes-are-still-the-poets-lament/
