Spent

He was a poet, although no one was ever truly sure of course, because he had never rhymed. He said he could, and they believed, as fools fall for the one they love. His eyes spoke of quiet water and dark coal, his lips promised no end. On summer days he could be seen in the cornfield, scratching his words in the ubiquitious sketch book, the paper thick and thirsty, absorbing his thoughts like sponge. Some days the skies would open and rain would mix with the dark blue lines, leaving swirls and traces trickling ever down. In these times he would set down his pen and watch the forming philosophies slowly reveal themselves, chance etching a grand context further and further onto his work. And he would weep, openly.