I dwell not on my peevish reticence,
my indolent reservations of adherence,
tis just the light that flickers low,
as if half-mast, my vigour,
and the dragging of this flesh to purge
my malaise, my lifeless surge,
inhibits all I want.
There, within reach,
my cosmos far away, sits in idle boredom,
my attentive mind to delegate movement,
to seize the day and fall in place my being,
yet slumber, in arrogant wake of oblivion,
holds these arms in shackles,
and I’ve not the strength against iron.
I often think mind alone shall journey me on,
as is my belief, the pilot’s choice,
yet without the base physical steps,
my quill alone carries the burden,
my mind in focus of perfection,
and what ensues but a shoulder,
to the head that is lost in beauty’s hold.
Maudlin I can be, in contemplation,
lost to the lost in me,
yet will my cosmos grant me will,
even when darkness still, tries to placate the beauty;
I care not for the glory, I care not for the jewels,
just the knowing that a mind is read,
and that thought even in thread, is recognised.
I be a poet,
given to beauty’s passionate embrace,
and what I see is filtered by her fair sight,
and even the darkness cannot rid this soul of her,
what she offers more alive than this vessel,
and in dim repose, the words in endless reams,
reverberate my heartfelt dreams, in truth.
Tony DeLorger © 2016