Let not strange whimsy wither,
Strangled by grievance.
True - idler am I,
As words have fallen from grace,
So, too, a poet.
My lot once would vend
Letters to the unlettered:
Proud obsolescence.
The world’s not at fault,
Rather my own vagaries.
Tell you a secret -
My vain, feckless reach
Falls ever short of my grasp.
No heaven for me.
And so I tumble
Upon wild winds of fortune,
Tousled, torn and tossed.
I struck this match with
Scant tinder for inferno.
I apologize.
Nov 5, 2018
Nov 5, 2018 at 6:43 AM UTC
Let not strange whimsy wither,
Strangled by grievance.
True - idler am I,
As words have fallen from grace,
So, too, a poet.
My lot once would vend
Letters to the unlettered:
Proud obsolescence.
The world’s not at fault,
Rather my own vagaries.
Tell you a secret -
My vain, feckless reach
Falls ever short of my grasp.
No heaven for me.
And so I tumble
Upon wild winds of fortune,
Tousled, torn and tossed.
I struck this match with
Scant tinder for inferno.
I apologize.