I fear the days
when words find solace in shadows,
hiding from a mind in a state of disarray,
and plucking them from the air,
each one no certainty,
when muddied are the waters
of a poet and mind parted.
Through the eyes of beauty I see,
and words follow my cause,
but what if one day that beauty fades,
aged as I in wrinkled, calcified display,
where words elusive find no place
in the fields of possibility,
bare in a fall from grace.
The mind is my saviour, my hold on life,
and what pours out my plight,
my purpose in life,
and I can’t imagine not mulling over lines,
making notes and writing all the time,
for that is my reason for a sentient mind,
beauty’s task atoned in me.
Perhaps when I’m a hundred and three,
those words so dutifully penned with echo in me,
and maybe not writing but pleasured from what’s been
will carry me to a purposeful end,
where words of the greats drifting,
remind me of my path,
finding beauty in the aftermath of every breath.
Then at least I will not be sorrowful in my demise,
and take heart in what words I derived
from the course of my life,
each reason an emotion finding surface,
open and bled in the service of my art,
and pleasured I’ll be to see them
remain in black and white.
Then with words to carry me
like angel wings embraced,
I’ll float off to peace and eventually a rebirth,
and I hope I remember the joy of this word filled life,
and in beauty’s name render again what I see,
the strife, the pain, the love, the glee,
from a poets heart to you, from me.
Tony DeLorger © 2018
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