You have the soul of a poet

You have the soul of a poet

It is a compliment

I guess.

But what does it mean

Am I an open book.

How do they know,

When in truth

I know so little,

Hunger to know more.

Is that why I do it,

Search through my own back pages

For a few lines

To chase old doubts away,

Even for a moment.

But what good will it do,

To follow a paper trail

Through dingy corridors,

Smudged by the latent

Print of words

I barely recognise,

Until I am strung out

Between them,

Looking both ways,

At one and the same time.

Searching for clarity,

Turning over bed rocks,

Peeping through

The mirrored cracks

That splinter through

The sterile surface of my

Own out world,

Wondering how to

Overcome the gravity

Of my existence,

To see beyond the grave

That looks upon my soul

Find a truth is there

Waiting to be told.

Although its full intent

Is still a strange illusion

Twisting and turning

In a restless need

To be set free.

And once that wordy jumble

Is set down,

Still struggling,

Onto the page

And finally, they are let be,

How strange it is to see

They know more than I,

About what it is

To co-exist,

Between the lines,

Of uncertainty,

And what that might

Mean to me.