A Fellow Poet

Met a fellow poet
in a green, dark room.
The room was vacant
with just a mirror and broom.

He stood in a corner,
in a black torn coat,
with his crooked teeth
and a faint smile.

His eyes cold and doomed
with a black swollen wound.
He was holding something tight,
close to his chest.

It was a book covered in silver,
with his poems in it.
Leaned forward he handed the book
Stretching with shaking hands (trembling)

His touch was of someone
..someone I knew.
I could grasp a streak of poetry in his vein
But all the time he hid his work in disdain.

Head down, I pore over the book
Words drenched in agony, passion and abyss.
Painting it on the canvas of my soul.
'Oh, I live to be the ruler of life, not a slave!'
Words yelling and echoing in the vacant space.

Awed and mesmerized!
I concluded the book.
But the fellow poet was not there
And I didn't know where to look.

The room had no doors,
nor any windows.
Where could the fellow poet go?

...I Met a fellow poet,
in a green, dark room.
The room was vacant
with just a mirror & broom.