What is it, dear muse, you wish for me to write?
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A Peddler of Words I am a peddler of words, emotions clanging like pans on a cart, pick one, or two if you’d like. I have more where they came from. There are many ghosts, and I’m the psychic with a pen, come in, do come in. And I will write your words, my friend. But who shall read them? Who will recognize your words I write? Will your loved one notice mention of the fight, the one before you died? Will the lament of mother-loss bring tears to orphans' eyes? You, who are finally sober, must you apologize, as deep beneath your grave your body lies. Who is left behind? A child, perhaps, a wife? Will these words become a balm to soothe a restless life? Or will these words be salt to rub upon their wounded skin? Do you comprehend, these words you have me write cannot be taken back? I have no choice who reads them. Are you sure you want to pay, your peace the price for words you whisper in my ear? In ink, they will be written for eternity, while memories and loved ones will someday melt away. But do not fret, my customer, your words I’ll gladly write, for somewhere, there’s someone who needs to read the words you have me write. So go forth to the light, dear muse, the poem's done at last. Some other souls are waiting and I must complete their task. I am a peddler of words, emotions clanging like pans on a cart, pick one, or two if you’d like. What is it, dear muse, you wish for me to write? |