A/N: This is a poem about Bob Dylan that I wrote in a cafe on the corner of Bleecker & MacDougal in Greenwich Village, NYC :)

Night in the Village

Unknown and young, he shuffles down Bleecker.
Feet bound in a pair of worn sneakers.
Raven hair flying in the wind so cold.
Only pure ambition and not an album sold.

One chapped hand grasps an old guitar,
The distance to fame is not that far.
Other hand is in the pocket of an old, brown jacket.
Door to the Bitter End opens filling Bleecker with a loud racket.

Entering, he sits on an old chair,
Runs free, slender fingers through ebony hair.
Sapphire eyes dart around the room with a deep stare.
A talent this gifted and true is most rare.

He plays long into the night for so little pay.
Walking onto the blustery street, scurries into a cafe.
She's waiting to pull him away from the harsh street.
For he's so young, needing her protection, love, and heat.

He throws his jacket onto a table,
Hoping to write a good lyric if he's able.
He's so worn and exhausted by this time of day,
But the words always seem to come anyway.

And so does the music, it pours out of his soul.
He'll soon have a larger-than-life role.
He's struggled and fought so hard for the fame.
Now that its nearly arrived, can he play the game?

Years have flown by since this moment in the past.
We all know his fame and talent will always last.
Night falls on the city as I sit in Washington Square.
I hope he is immortal, for his loss I simply cannot bear.