Come, And Be My Baby...

Once, there was a poet
Whose words had gone astray,
They did not linger in the air
Nor at the dim doorway.
This poet called out softly
But alas, there was no sound
For all the words had dissipated-
None could be found.
Entangled in the branches of
The slowly swaying trees,
Caught in lovers' lullabyes,
Choking on the breeze.
Not one poetic utterance
Not one apt word of truth,
Forever gone, the poet's words,
Forever gone their youth.
And now the poet all alone
Can seldom move the lips
That once sung out of beauty,
Of blushing ivy crypts
In which there may lie damsels,
Weeping in distrust.
No, these words lie dormant
In the ever-moving dusts.
Take heed, most weary traveller,
Allow yourself to see
That all words hold potential,
Any word can be.