My empathy bears to mind a dependable guilt
At all fickle times…
In all fickle ways…
Within me errs a sinful wilt:
The pen little climbs…
–The poem much dismays…
“A man becomes that which he fears
Whence his word earns court with damning ears.
Rush then, now, dear, to my vacant side.
Bless this hand here of latent lies.”
These days, I feign my death as a poet
I’ve cut many ties…
I’ve let the paint fade…
Seize praise, then strain to show it:
The pen little climbs…
The poem much dismays…
“If man succumbs to his own tears,
He wins blurred yearns for better years.
Hush then, now, peers. None thy blatant snide.
Bless this hand here of latent lies.”
…And I go, again, unclaimed / To wont for a shelf life / Beyond that of spoiling milk…