The Writer Poem by James Green

With heavy eyes I stared down at the book
Reading through every corner and nook
Of every word and each and every letter,
Trying to read something that would help me understand their creator.
For he was my mate, my brother and my friend,
For he and I were once together blend;
Yet when I held the book he held the pen,
To write about every rock in the lion’s den,
As it was where we had always dwelt,
Where stone into our mind had melt.

As I read the words, I wondered how they had changed,
Or rather why they were so different from their writer-so deranged,
Every word and every letter made no sense,
Yet every time me, they had managed to cleanse.
I had thought that I knew the writer very well,
Now I know my sense of him, is worse than a hollow shell.
In my mind of stone his words he had etched,
Yet their sense, to me seemed so farfetched.
But those words were so blatantly simple,
Unlike his mind, so deplorably supple.

Every time I read his words, I could not help but wonder,
And the rest of the day over this I would ponder-
Why do these words keep moving away from the lighter?
And with them, has, too changed the writer?
I wondered if to his metamorphosis I had played witness,
Then maybe in noticing, I had poor success.
It took little strength to surpass the moment of doubt
When I realized I was letting my thoughts run wild about.
But how can two people, yet so similar
Write words, from each other are so dissimilar.

What brought on the change? If so,
Oh! How badly I wanted to know,
Was it the blindness of the world to his sinking words?
Or was it theirs’, sharp enough to kill birds?
Was it life’s burdens and mishaps?
Or perhaps his lover’s relapse?
Was it life’s unfair circumstances?
That we overlooked as mere instances.
Was it because even amidst a crowd he was secluded?
Was it because of the chains of life? (That left him not a bit eluded)

I searched and searched for the writer,
Even amidst the lion dens grass that withers;
I searched for him beyond his father’s grave
And even beyond the woods that lead to the ubiquitous cave,
But I caught not the sight of his shade,
As I thought, how easy it is to find people when they serenade.
I wondered where, he himself had hid?
To find him, I myself from myself had rid;
But between his ambiguous words I found a hint
And a tiny clue to catch his eye’s glint.

I learnt of his presence, from his words of art,
And thence my hunt for him, I once again did start.
And I continued till I found him at last,
(I was surprised like over me a lion was cast!)
I stared at him through the thin glass,
Tainted on one side and covered by scars,
Across the mirror I found the writer,
Who over the land of words was the greatest dictator?
Across the mirror I told the writer now so stagnant,
“Your words unlike your mind are not so constant”