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 pound 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 I find
my way back from the black hole of lost
not even my crying out will soothe the
aching heart from writer’s cramp 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 it’s meaning and rhyme
to fondle my meanings and stroke them out
this causes me to wince and never want to
tap again on this master of keys and silk ribbon
© Copyright 2010 by Vincent Moore. All rights reserved