Tricyclic Poet Poem by Arthur H Rowley

My mind is a bathroom in the midst of night,
back-lit with streetlights and christened by the frosted glass,
there is no poetry here, now,
focus on the cool porcelain beneath these clenching hands,
my weight against the sink

I am unsure if it was worth it,
yes, the pain within me had lessened,
but the poet is a quietened madman
hushing against his ever shrinking confines,
there are so many scratches in the walls to tally his lifetime here
that the cell looks as though it has been knit from concrete

when I visit him it is selfish,
I tell him how hard it has been to close out his voice,
to leave the deadbolt pulled taught,
there is a distinct horror still residing within me
and it has nothing to do with him

the poet is a terrible man
but he writes as though his hands are weeping,
how can I curse one so profitable?
there is a lot to be gained from a sadness so effervescent it makes an artist of you

without him I am unable to write of my longing for his return
and how I cannot ever allow him to,
perhaps the poet and I are one of the same,
surrealists drunk on self betterment,
we cannot exist beyond each other

I am yet to make up my mind as to whether or not this is all worth it.