the muse is fickle this autumn,
beseeching for tribute and homage,
burnt flesh and libation.
but a poet owns no livestock,
and a drunkard can spare no wine,
so the quill lies idle by.
the inkwell crusts,
congealed like blood
which pools but cannot dry.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
-
The young man with the old eyes. He knows that the only real measure of man’s character in modern society is the level of self-control he ...
-
handfuls of anvils for aches and spills, rhythmically hammering advil pills, bellows and coal bourbon and skoal, the loitering smoke a s...
-
'perennial with the earth.' there is a dream of america. one that lives on in the hearts of its daughters and sons. despite bei...
No comments:
Post a Comment