A poet I have yet to be

But still I feel the Poet’s agony;

That burning desire my soul harbours—

To go forth and splay the beans of my pain,

And share with all the wisdom I feel I gain.


Bleak times, bleaker still is light at the end of my tunnel,

The hope that lulls from sleep to the dawn of a new day

Rests in the arms of the Angel who keeps walking away.

Swinging censer of incense sweet, incense of Love, Hope and Tomorrow,

Ever distant she grows, then from Melancholy’s book I borrow


A page that encourages to write, and in that take delight.

But what flow from my pen are words of pain and dark night,

Without sweet, silver Artemis adorning the sky.

As I inhale the buzzing of cicadas, swallow the chirping of crickets,

Genuflecting to that which controls my tomorrow,


Prithee, tell me, of what crimes am I guilty, how and whence,

And at the crack of dawn, of all will I begin to recompense.

Pain envelops all, burrowing ever-deeper into our Souls,

But it hurts worse when you don’t know why you pine,

When you clutch your head in distress, and welcome the numbness of good wine.


The pain coaxes me to write, to marry paper with ink, etch odes to misery,

To write in the embers of forgotten tomorrows, those that threaten to be

Blindingly dark, as empty as my yesterday.

The nascent-poet in me bleeds the good and bright, and retains the words of gloomy nights

For he suspects those are all he may ever need.



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