They say with words he always had a way.
Actually, it was crooked and potholed.
Sparkly, like broken bottles, you might say,
but roadside of his smooth talk soon got old.
There were a few who enjoyed his sharp tongue,
but misjudged him as a one-trick pony.
Cold steel fear, not brass, forged the sword he swung,
leaving this knight’s nights sleepless and lonely.
One judged him not for words but for his heart,
he loved her and she him since he met her.
One loved his art, but their hearts stayed apart,
her own crooked path led her to know better.
And so, on this road he’s nearing the end,
hand in hand with his love, not another.
But often he recalls his musing friend —
not the only one, but his only Other.
A Thing for Words 