The Poet

I sit and stare at unmarked page

My lack of thoughts some sign of age?

Or other blight upon my brain?

But I will carry on and on

Until what words I have are gone.

Despite words driving me insane.

I cannot help this urge I feel

To bring rebellious verse to heel.

Ah! There’s that cursed rhyme again!

So write I must and write I will

This verse of such diminished skill.

So sad to watch my wordcraft wane.

I sit and stare at words I wrote

Brain still intact I gladly note.

“Until the morrow!” My refrain.

 

Cheers, Winston