It sits there on my rustic desk,
beside the potted plants on my sill,
beckoning me to come caress,
it’s faded keys and let the magic in.
My head pounds forth the verse and
rhyme of my forgotten yesterdays,
and promises of better tomorrows,
not yet come to cast its sad shadows
over my solitude and lost passion.
For the poison of my pen and wine,
the fear of blank paper staring at me
for want of being brought to life and not
crumpled and tossed to its early end,
on the pile of dust that surrounds me.
The ribbon of life is torn and faded with use,
its black surface is wanting of a caress
from a poet with words, that bring it to life
and yet yearns to see creation again,
but humbly fakes the poet’s breath
of life into the written verse on the page.
Its steely frame beckons me from my wine,
to softly remember who I am and find
my way back from the black hole of lost,
not even my crying out will soothe the
aching heart from writer’s cramps and
blackened nights, of reckless abandon
The pain of it all, to spill my soul and let
a world around the poet sink into
the hell of worthless words,
brought forth with vigor and pain,
to feel once more the quiet in my room
and demons in my soul, possessed by verse
how then do I quench myself with this?
madness that strikes my very being.
I am driven to create yet another work
for my critics to devour and regurgitate
each word for its meaning and rhyme,
to fondle my meanings and stroke them out,
causing me to wince and never want to
tap again, on this master of keys and silk ribbon.
© Copyright by Vincent Moore. All rights reserved