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
© Copyright by Vincent Moore. All rights reserved