Daily in his captivating words we meet,
Albeit though being discreet,
Still our worlds sure collide,
And in my mind we sure confide,
But in reality…
He knows not of our meets.
With each perfect line that he spews,
I’m attracted:even much more than to the local brews,
To all those that he spins to,
I blindly follow, just like a zebu,
But in reality…
He knows not of all this.
With a hook, line, sinker…
I fear I am trapped,
To me he is the great inker,
Under his wing I can be the bone head,
And now in reality…
He must know of this.
With my cymbals I come out,
Not to just bend my knees and pout,
But to call out for him,
Let the Wordsmith come in a limb,
For I need more of his words,
At his pupilage I will be the nerd.
©Joy?
The Eisenherz Poet 