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.