Who am I, if you are not here...

Who am I, if you are not here to listen?
Does my whispered frail breath fail,
  falter and fall on deaf ears of the illiterate?

With nectar words I multiply,
  I grow in your bosom, in your very soul.
My ancient tongue utters incantations lost,
  words lost, to ages passed and faded…
  into simpler days, bore by the Ferryman
  cross the fabled Styx, into the eternal night.

Simple men, average women, children,
  and all others understood my tongue,
  my words, my stacking of language,
  my due creations to the Gods above:
I, the Knight of ages forlorn– forgotten.
Scrawling feebly with my dull feather,
  these words, which you utter now.

From the depths of the ancients,
  my mind stretches, transcending time,
  transporting my illustrations of passion
  to my pen, and from my pen to your eye.

Each stroke drifts up, as incense
  to the blunted nares of your eyes.
Steadily, my iron hand, works the bowl,
  pouring cleansing water steadily
  over the choice ingredients– perfectly.

From my soul stirs the fires which burn,
  fire that smelts all, refining emotion,
  purifying motive, drive and will.
Each waft of silver dreams drifting
  up from the intoxicating concoction
  pounds, sledges and rings out…
Rolling across the plains of life,
  streaking through the halls of time,
  forcing my ink slathered quill to dance,
  slamming ink across the parchments face–
Smearing ivory fibers with blackened blood.

Who am I without you to listen?
I am but a madman, without an audience,
  a poet without a pen, or scroll to scribe,
  an author without drive or motive,
  a desperate pawn without a king,
  or an instrument without a skilled hand…

So mad I am, and write I do,
  speak and cry, hoping that you listen,
  begging that my weapon fails not,
  that my bowl is full, and the smoke thick.
I write as I love, I pen as I love,
  I speak as a lost drunkard in love,
  I love as life moves, as life lives!

So what moves me, what makes me cry?
What makes me dance, sing, scream?
What forms and makes me– me? 

And I give you this answer:  Life.

With the dawn I arise from my bed,
  I drift through my humble home,
  my subtle mind echoes words dreamt.
I ready my armor, my sacred sword,
  and scribe the fables and dreams of old,
  letting my deepest desires dance–
I, the Sir of shadows of ancient times,
  the Archon of my holy chambers,
  pen what may be, and is, by my clay hand.

Tease me not, test me not,
  bear not my words unheeded,
  bear them not without their due weight.
For lead they are, or gold possibly,
  disguised in the frail, tattered shroud.

So, by my earthen hand I write,
  by my burning desire tested and true,
  by senses undeniable, words strike deep.

So, I stand amid the misted air,
  wrapped in the incenses of my words,
  bound in the steel of my armor,
  armed with my dulled feather,
  bleeding my darkened blood
  across the woven ivory fibers;
  I scream the words of my life,
  which echo from the halls of time,
  from the days of chivalrous passion,
  from the evenings buried and forlorn–
  I scream the words, I scream the words!

Who am I, if you are not here to listen?
  A madman with a bowl of smoke,
  who stands amid the herd of the blind?
A powerful speaker with dire words,
  who stands amid the crowd long deaf?
A scented harlot, wreaking of lust,
  who lies in a bed empty and cold?

I am misplaced, displaced from time,
  And I long to return home–
  To the days of chivalry and honor,
  to the time when men stood tall,
  when women were loved and cherished,
  when steel was tested and gold earned…
  Yet, I am here, echoing dreams,
  screaming across the heavens,
  over the ceiling of the clouds and sky,
  hoping, only that one may hear me:

For who am I, if you are not here to listen?