The Poet's Quill

As the poet lays his warm quill against my soul    
the icy winds whisper his secrets to me, time and again.    
   
I bestow these emotions then cast them out through screaming eyes.    
My wounding cry not denied of words laced in pain's simplicity.    
   
I tread lightly upon his grey, shard, littered path of misery,    
minding the strokes.    
TIS my road, barbed in poetic sensory.    
   
As the dance sleeps; the song plays on.    
I'm cold, masked in warmth. It's my only warning, I give freely.[/font]