I'm
a fool , a fool,
a fool
with a pen;

sometimes
a happy fool
with a pen,
with a pen
in his den.

Sometimes
a happy fool!

Violin strings
being fully stretched

as the world sleeps
through it's woes -

a dolorous tune
for mankind

heard
by but the few.

King of the night
with no servant in sight.

Most lights out
just me up and about

I stare at the snow
in between handling
my precious words with care.

Seeds that must grow and grow
in the springtime of my soul
being laid bare.

The village sleeps
when I retire.

The village sleeps
when I arise.

One man's land
counting grains of sand

while travelling towards eternity.

A piece -

too terribly beautiful,

too extremely poignant

and too utterly perfect

in expressing

the emotions

of a frail

and pathetically

limited heart.

During
a symphony
a fusion
of Your cross,
Munch's Scream
and my Mona Lisa's
innumerable faces
breath
a sense of completion.

Haunting music
fills this soul
to the brim,
in it's quest
for meaning
and dignity
in the wherewithal
of this meagre and aimless
existence.