Walking the road of life, I kick up the dust
of past lives and watch as they flash before
me in wonder pausing to take a deep breath
with an exhausted soul.
I’ve seen the dark side and witnessed the
hardened hearts of many, who with delight
tore away the veins swelling with pride
and malice, stripping the venom from
within as I wept like a child lost in a
Why do I write, and why do I arrest
and hesitate to go on and keep up the
pace like others who I envy and read
as they pour their verse and rhymes
over white and taste the ink left
smudged on every page they turn?
Oh how my heart aches and quickens
with remorse as the shadows come
forth to haunt me and keep me at
bay, and take my words I want so
much to share with kindred spirits.
My demons laugh and frolic in
ghostly figures, shedding a cold and
shivering feeling over my skin as
I attempt to break free from them,
to sit at desk and catch the dimming
light of my last candle light flicker
beckoning me to come and scribe
once more and write like it was
Screaming and tearing at my garment
of life’s rags that wrapped around a
history so torn and mixed with feelings
of being lost I the poet laughed in
disdain for the hand dealt me and the
devil simply grinned and whispered
time is short so bleed and let the
wounds you bare be living proof of
why you are who you are a lost time
traveler moving through the universe
into another plane of long ago.
So my wasted life of turmoil and
strife leaves blemishes on my tortured
soul as I try my best to pull myself
from stress and depression of life’s
everyday offerings as I talk to my
muse I ask the question why should
I go on why should I write why
should I care.
The curtain unfolds and there he
stands in costume of royalty plumage
feathered and like the Marquis de Sade
he simply smirks at me and says
BECAUSE just because and vanishes
as quickly as he appeared.
I bow my head and sit bewildered,
yet fulfilled with vigor and amused
by the encouraging words, I sip my
red and dip my quill into the bowl
of blood poured from my razored
veins and write my last words good
bye my friends, I go to rest among
the poets from the past.
© Copyright by 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.