The declivity of time declines into
Stygian deeps but this depth is
no deeper than my dismal mood.
Misery drinks the sun dry and I?
I seek surcease in poetry but have
yet to find that elusive treasure that
will bring my glass to measure.
I lose myself in gloomy tales
of fallen grandeur and travel
long ruddy rivers where in the end
love is neither lost nor won.
An eagle soars
by mountain high.
A rainbows arch spans
Yet I no better for verse
I immolate my mind by satanic
However like unto some
neurotic virtuoso I am shaken
but not stirred to life by terror
of the night.
An inmate of graveyard mood
trapped in lachrymal lassitude,
I finally decide to employ pen to pelt
away my blues.
Indulging in a bit of vers-libre
My pelf is poor at first but
soon I develop quite the thirst
for wordy burst of hyperbole.
What came first poetry or the dream?
Whether poetry brought the dream
or the dream brought the poetry?
I do not know.
But it came with a sinister scurrying of
dressed in tuxedos and black hats.
Then the wormy partition parted.
And once more,
all was right with the world.