A living poet writes for those not born,
for those who wake, and live as if they're dead
and those who resurrect themselves each morn.
A pat of praise upon a loaf of scorn's
what constitutes a rebel's daily bread.
A living poet writes for those not born.
An elegy to comfort those who mourn,
to weep the sadness they have left unshed
and those who resurrect themselves each morn.
To lovers, unrequited and forlorn
whose stillborn passion never left their heads,
a living poet writes for those not born.
A few rare people, worldly, wise and shorn
of most pretense, will grasp what's being said
and those, who resurrect themselves each morn,
will reach for pen and paper, and adorn
us all with sacred words, keep spirit fed.
A living poet writes for those not born
and those who resurrect themselves each morn.
NaPoWriMo day 17 - unprompted daily.
Guilty as charged.
Invictus - William Ernest Henley
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is ******, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate,
I am the captain of my soul.