to all the listeners

‘Is there anybody there?’ said the Traveller,
Knocking on the moonlit door;

oh but no my horse doesn’t
chomp in the background
as a matter of fact i don’t own a horse
but oh how i wish i would value
being a fancy horse-owner
if my mind worked that way
but does it?
it does not.
it puts up the title of
a poem as an ode to listeners
quotes Walter De La Mare
and rants about not owning a horse
but who owns a horse in this day and age
and not talk about owning one
and who can never own a horse
and whine about not being capable of owning one
if you were to listen
to me 20 more seconds
you’d know that i am not
all that wrong,
that i strive for
well formed thoughts
which is simply a joke
i was cracking a joke
just like your words and your obsessions
which crack the trail of my thoughts
weaken their very structure
dope them with your expressions
amplified voice
accentuated words
the fabric of my thoughts get disorganised
creased to a permanence
by the same complains
the misfortune of my existence
the blessing of your life experiences
and my thoughts
they’re not the same
colour, they’re never
the same words
the same struggle
eroded by the edges of your
smile after that slap you planted on my face
in the empty of my skull
my words
they echo
and ring in
images, colours and desires
that only i can listen to
only i can experience in all
its filth, the purity of
the disgust it holds, the pitch of the joy
it very frequently experiences at the wrong places
to all the listeners
the patient and impatient ones
the sullied and deaf ones
to all those who are cursed to
live in some intensity for someone else’s words
furrow your brows and listen
this is the fallacy of being a listener
that somewhere in the back of our heads
we’re all talking about our non-existent horses
some of us simply don’t know what horses are

And how the silence surged softly backward,
When the plunging hoofs were gone.