I am not a poet.

I repeat: I am not a poet. However, I do write poetry from time to time, and...well, this is a sonnet.

Three facts about it:

1) I typed this piece, but it wrote itself. I just sat there and the words poured out because it needed to exist.

2) It is the most personal piece of writing I have ever done, and there is only one other living soul on earth who knows what it is about.

3) What this poem means to me is unimportant. What matters is what what it means to you.

I stood before a rich, exotic feast

With them about me---smiling, joyous friends.

We gathered far from reach of lowly beast,

In fire-warmed halls where candlelight attends.


We joked and laughed and argued through the night

And talked of strings and cats and magic lands.

We learned to race the waves beneath the light

And drank from cups that sang between our hands.


You watched us all, amused, your mouth askew

As though an old man sat behind your eyes,

And when you spoke once more to me, I knew

That truth is truth, and reason never lies,


Except in this one case. Such reason lay

Beyond my reach as night changed into day.

The End

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