In a time before recent, at the whim of my desire,
I’d revive a long-dead talent to stress again my ire.
My name on the paper seems to reignite a pain.
To the author of this poem, I offer a refrain.
This pain once spurred from channeling my woes,
From putting pen to page and inking my throes,
Was ne’er pure in humor or unselfish in extent-
Was ne’er sure for who or what it was meant.
…
T’were a standard, in my eyes-
T’were a ruleset where whereby
I had writ a large devotion
To this creature of the night-
-This nocturnal man
With an infernal plan
To rid his very mind
Of those he’d left behind
Never saw the light until
His world unbirthed and time stood still.
And on the eve his soul’s dismay
When he sung his swan song day,
The pen stopped dead amove
And his lyrics did as such too.
…
Until, alas, this prose began
And lost again was this man.
The poetry of yesterday
Was, once again, a motivator.