A Poet’s Contempt

A poets contempt

A poets contempt

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

If I survive this day of contempt, may the

village church bells chime over the

dust covered bones that bad fortune has

claimed upon me.

 

Better times I did see, struggled over lines

too poor to see the light of day, so be their

mis-fortune not mine.

 

Though my pen strips me of my solitude

and hangs me alone like a lost lover of

old times, I reserve my love for thee.

 

Though rhyme be ill equipped my tongue

wavers like a drunken muse, my laughter can

be heard through the battered castle walls.

 

A wailing poet I beat my chest remembering

once happier days of substance, I was

trusted by the royals, now I sink

in death to prove I wrote for the love and peace

of it, not for fortune or fame.

 

In chains, my tattered soul lingers, delirious

to prove worthy of you, wanting of words I knit

and bare my naked tattered brow, such

sweet respect I clothed my heart and dream of

you and me in scented meadows.

 

The axe man awaits my head tomorrow, the

jester crows his servitude to mock this poet’s

contempt.

 

© Copyright by Vincent Moore. All rights reserved


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