Friday, 24 February 2017

The Eternal Gifts of a Poet?

It had been so long since I wrote,
I thought, I had lost them, the eternal gifts of a poet:
the sad sorrow,
the angry ferociousness.
But now, I can see them,
welled up behind my eyes,
Now, I can hear them,
swelling up in my throat.
Now, I can hear them,
screaming and scheming
as they whisper into mind.
Now, I can feel them clawing,
Clawing, shouting, screeching and impatient,
All, in the deep reaches of my mind.
My skull, struggling to keep what's inside inside,
Aches to bursts and let them out.

And armed with the armour of a mirthful guise
And the sword of a poetic imagination,
I wage war on these insolent foe,
I battle this enemy with names aplenty,
This silhouetted evil I allude to.

Eternal gifts of a poet?
The self-glorifying rants of a madman, right?

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