Conflict is the moment of the
troubled writer,
Frozen between the self
And the image,
That time when no poet can
Live up to the name,
And the struggle ensues
To force perfection
Upon imperfect words.
The writer tries to open
And feel
The natural syllabic
Progression of thought,
And feeling,
And knowledge.
The poet writes a tight rope
With no room for mistakes,
And no net
But failure.
The poet does not know.
He's fallen.
The poet refuses to
Acknowledge the failure,
But resides in rhetoric
Until the day
When he'll stare at that
Empty page
And wonder aloud,
"How fickle the muse!"
"How unfeeling the inspiration!"
He scribbles with no feeling,
No meaning,
An aching shadow of
The poet,
And becomes the prophet
Of profit.
The poet is the corpse of
A feeling,
Left to die,
To lie in the past
and proceeds.
The poet is thought, left in peace,
In mourning,
And a request
For understanding.
The poet is no lamp,
But shiny metal,
A soft reflection,
A soft repose.
The free spirit is a mirror
And grain of the seed,
As the acorn grows the oak tree,
As pride grows lies,
And ambition grows adversaries.
c. Nov 1993
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