Whence cometh my mediocrity?
Shameful is my life.
In verse I so long
To pen my thoughts
On love, nature,
On life’s fragility.
Yet from my heart and mind
Exudeth naught.
Voiceless, museless
Dare I deem myself a poet?
If I am not to write
Then wherefore do I exist?
Just as the captain without bark
Is but a soul bedeviled and lost,
So too is the author without voice
Ne’er to be an author at all.
Though, oft I wonder
Perhaps, senescent are my woes,
And there is many a song
Have I yet to compose.
Only in due course
This will I e’er know.
O till that time is upon me
Ne’er will I cease to ponder
Whence cometh my mediocrity?
Only in due course
This will I e’er know.