A thief of time this poetry – it blithely
steals the hours one tries to set aside
the hour’s one allocates to lie in ease
of poets arms proportionate – dictates
survival of the heart and mind; while
I, victim of its larceny, comply in fear
nowhere is it safe for me – day divides
in shaded nights and waked apostacy.
Write I must or die a poet’s lonesome
death in words bereft; no justice left
to succour me, no claim besides a life
foregone to creed that writers write to
just survive – and I to find a breath in
words that no one yet may get to read.
© 8 June 2008, I. D. Carswell
steals the hours one tries to set aside
the hour’s one allocates to lie in ease
of poets arms proportionate – dictates
survival of the heart and mind; while
I, victim of its larceny, comply in fear
nowhere is it safe for me – day divides
in shaded nights and waked apostacy.
Write I must or die a poet’s lonesome
death in words bereft; no justice left
to succour me, no claim besides a life
foregone to creed that writers write to
just survive – and I to find a breath in
words that no one yet may get to read.
© 8 June 2008, I. D. Carswell
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