Untitled (second of four short poems)

Pity my silences,
they may be reticence.
Pity my reticences,
they may be the fruit
of my silenced tongue.
Pity the pool of tears
behind my eyes,
they were shed
for my lost words.

Just As

Just as the lover finds, who only
loves if loved, the truth of love
is unconditional.

Just as the sculptor, who can dream
the form inside the marble block,
will come to know the chiselled space
within the form.

Just as the painter, who has used the life
to copy life, will ultimately live
in pure white canvasses.

So will the poet learn to sing
his songs in silence,
ceasing to insert his words
between desired and known.