Poet

I thought I was a poet;

Compounding rhymes and sonnets,

Making words reverberate their meaning and symbolic.

I thought writing like a poet;

Extirpating magnificence out of world’s grace;

Strutting idle letters on a white sheet of paper,

Grasp their dormant power for the world to shiver.

I thought living like a poet;

For the purpose of my life was transcendence:

Endeavour to constrain remnants of ancient wisdom and beauty.

I thought to have the soul of a poet;

See behind the veil.

See through God’s sincere creation.

Like Zarathoustra’s peacock, I thought to know, to be…

I probably am a poet;

For what can be resolved through inspiration hidden from me.

Owing to it a fabrication dull as a white empty brothel wall.

I sold my soul for an empty mug.

I apologize, Faust, for letting you down.

I am weak as this work.

I’m a poet;

Crying on this affable poem.

27 May 2003