O Solitude,
thou selfsame cure for
thy sister Lonelynesse.
Thou scaffold for crows;
thou sweet sacrifice of the soul.
I sent my SOS to the world
a quarter century ago.
But ‘tis too late, I am
drowned in solitude.
Be not deceived by what you’ve read.
All the good poets are long-since dead.
What final word be ventured?
What idle mind the next give birth?
Always it’s back to silence,
surrendering all violence;
drawing back, drawing near,
the Land without fear –
but two angels bar the way,
their fiery swords hold sway.
[This poem copyright © 2014 by Reality Wedge!]
O distraction,
ReplyDeletethou minx and prick
unto the principles
while such silence
keeps hold.
Be not aggreieved,
all bad poets are now conceived.
What if I cannot
and none other can?
Will the work of poets
become all sham?
Surely not! I protest.
Doth do shall hark
fie thy thee lest.
:)
O Reader, if thou Ingle's poem comprehend;
ReplyDeletemy hat to thee I doff and a while suspend.