So named and justly so by his brethren,
his dress of words that live deeply in a mind
that longs release from all his pain, to gain
respect not disgust from his shabby dress.
In his lonely hours he penned words so fluently,
that flowed so effortlessly from his quill left
still, in feathered peace beside his bed.
His ordered verse came smoothly, with
a rhyme or two, left over from the chilled
cold air left in his chamber silent and poorly
lit from lonely hours spent there.
Upon his page he lingered often, with
harsh industry and strife, while his veins
pulsated and his eyes would fill with
sudden tears from a heart so bled.
Why, he pleaded should my eyes be
so red, to touch my heart, to open your
own eyes to overflowing joy or dread
I set forth with drowsy thoughts of
summer days, I say let my lips, wet
with emotion and passionate thrill
all who want to listen to me, still pass
my thoughts of lofty songs and words,
before they flee and fly away from
me, lost forever like a moth on wing,
fluttering in my candle light.
With pen afire I seduce each word
uttered and summon back at will my
thoughts of yesterdays, gone by with
crude lines I feared then as a boy, yet
now I glow and mend with rapture and
saving grace, impassioned every thought
and felt from my soul.
Translucent like the beauty of our earth,
I write the words inspired me in wonder
and delight,feeling calmly the might
of my quill, I slightly tap its feather under
chin and grin content, I sweep the dust
away from my scribe to lay it gently on
it’s side to be read in the morning glow,
as I rest my weary head upon my desk,
I listen to the tempest sing a lullaby so
sweet, I cling and fall to sleep
at last to dream.
© Copyright Vincent Moore. All Rights Reserved.
He was born and raised in Montreal Canada among the Irish, Brits, Italians and French. Point St Charles (commonly called The Point) was the Hell’s kitchen of Montreal. He played, cried, laughed and fought on the street corners, survival was an instinct and watching each others back important. Vincent left home at 17 to find his way in the world, failure and success he had plenty of. He studied the Arts and loved to draw and paint. Took acting lessons and envied those on the stage under the bright lights and hoped to some day become an actor, writer, playwright or painter. Vincent welcomes you to his world of mystery, fantasy and solitude. You can find a few of his writings in one of 3 books he's published.In Absinthia- In Melancholia and In Passionata.