NEW: a poet

 

There were no angular features to him, no sharp cheek bones, hard jaw, pronounced brow. Instead, there was a physical softness to him, the subtle, giving face of a poet, an empath, awash with emotions and feelings he either could not hide, or refused to. He was a dream writ large, a creature that lived in a world of ghosts and apparitions, of slim hipped gods - black eyed and sensually moved. He slipped, in his mind's eye, through portals of suggestion and of need. He was a poet, free in worlds unknown, and yet - in a world that savoured him not, he was destined to be nothing, of no value or use to the sweeping rational world of facts, figures, and quick judgement. A world that would suck him in whole - use him sparingly, but use him hard. A world that would gorge on him, then spit out his remnants as if he had never existed.