Exhausted Quill

Exhausted Quill

Exhausted Quill

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Walking the road of life, I kick up the dust

of past lives and watch as they flash before

me in wonder pausing to take a deep breath

with an exhausted soul.

 

I’ve seen the dark side and witnessed the

hardened hearts of many, who with delight

tore away the veins swelling with pride

and malice, stripping the venom from

within as I wept like a child lost in a

mother’s womb.

 

Why do I write, and why do I arrest

and hesitate to go on and keep up the

pace like others who I envy and read

as they pour their verse and rhymes

over white and taste the ink left

smudged on every page they turn?

 

Oh how my heart aches and quickens

with remorse as the shadows come

forth to haunt me and keep me at

bay, and take my words I want so

much to share with kindred spirits.

 

My demons laugh and frolic in

ghostly figures, shedding a cold and

shivering feeling over my skin as

I attempt to break free from them,

to sit at desk and catch the dimming

light of my last candle light flicker

beckoning me to come and scribe

once more and write like it was

my last.

 

Screaming and tearing at my garment

of life’s rags that wrapped around a

history so torn and mixed with feelings

of being lost I the poet laughed in

disdain for the hand dealt me and the

devil simply grinned and whispered

time is short so bleed and let the

wounds you bare be living proof of

why you are who you are a lost time

traveler moving through the universe

into another plane of long ago.

 

So my wasted life of turmoil and

strife leaves blemishes on my tortured

soul as I try my best to pull myself

from stress and depression of life’s

everyday offerings as I talk to my

muse I ask the question why should

I go on why should I write why

should I care.

 

The curtain unfolds and there he

stands in costume of royalty plumage

feathered and like the Marquis de Sade

he simply smirks at me and says

BECAUSE just because and vanishes

as quickly as he appeared.

 

I bow my head and sit bewildered,

yet fulfilled with vigor and amused

by the encouraging words, I sip my

red and dip my quill into the bowl

of blood poured from my razored

veins and write my last words good

bye my friends, I go to rest among

the poets from the past.

 

© Copyright by Vincent Moore. All rights reserved

 

 


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