Key Bored

Key Bored

Key Bored

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Key Bored

 

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

and pity.

 

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


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