Sole inspiration and breath-force right,
Only in moments of dire quick breath intense,
I see your worth in capable light.
All pain does not result in verse,
Or bond across the wretched layers,
This mournful recall will never spare,
I do suffer my work, I am whole aware.
Keeps me hanging by its flesh-hunting hooks,
It jarrs and scares, so clear and unfair,
So regular and undone,
Hours lost in scrape.
Let me change them,
I cannot catch my own shapes,
These passive thoughts
Hold my breath, but for how long?
Away with it, before it comes to life,
Inspire me, with your death in youth,
Your work that I left gaping,
Don't close up on me.
I place an oath and it is carrying,
For your cause, But why does this whole line find
That my memory be lost?
Where is the likeness of my mind?
Where untouched,pathos in blue,
Silvery stars blind-nudged,
Blushing my art anew, paddling in tumult,
Summarize, and find, where I slipped up.
All mine and your life weighed,
Is it mime? Fluorescent nights in nostalgic shade,
Smeared in productive slime, for which I labour tonight.
And bringing out, whatever was cryptic delightful.
And my own I hid, and put out a metaphor,
Green and yellow lamps amid,
Cottages under pale dew beams.
A secret across the road, a mother's love betrayed.
But you know not, my torment,
You love and love only true,
But true does not fit in my grind; I am a chased rodent shrew,
On all my love and life lay, swearing and splitting.
Why do I care?
Because mazes of joy I flung to bind,
Thought to thought and sinew to sinew,
Tan to wheat, and arm mouthed.
Keep it away as you are fortunate,
You knew! For what cool rooted tremble
Thou hast known and housed,
I will nay know.
What past realisation and morbid twirl you clutch,
I never feel. Cured.
A diseased, uncared for creative bout,
And letting go my tired eyes shut.
Enduring and paying,
And lay me moon-dead, by your side,
I give up my ensnared time.
And all will flame over my face,
Burn to scorch this earthy grime,
And I now cease out of verse,
And do repeal my unworthy dedication.
Ignore my raging tortuous climb.
Now, for it I do regret,
As every poet of all climes do,
Spawn in words, multiply and beget.
My high-tipped, shameful stray that grew,
Lie and know, that fervour will die not,
For your airy casement,
Lets me in whenever I please to please.