The Unknown Poet
He pens with an imperfect precision.
Magic bleeds from his stained fingers
Onto a stark white page in need of a vision.
What plagues his mind never lingers
There for long, before it takes flight.
The words fly in chaotic cortege,
Laboring long into the hushed night
Before landing in perfect sequence.
He is alone in a world full of beauty
But when the allure fades to grey,
Writing becomes his civic duty.
His muse never meets him halfway,
The bard struggles with the quibbler
In himself, sipping rhyme and reason,
Sampling phrases like coffee liqueur,
Never quite satisfied with the taste.
Seasons come and go in unhurried haste.
He captures precious moments in ink,
Storing doggerel verses before they erase
From his mind, gone in a blink.
The words embossed like hieroglyphs,
Deep enough to make them last.
A mind weary, hand worn and stiff,
His epic verse, a legacy of the past.