With meticulous a care, they command
the elements of narrative to shine,
accommodating into place and time
from the lips of such beautiful a muse.

They order dark and light and day and night–
they wield emotion and landscape and fire,
and, like the sovereign captain of a boat,
they bend threads of plot into a story.

Yes, their characters come all to life
when they tell me wondrous tales of love and fear.
They let hellfire fall and Eden spring–
my own Homer, Goethe, and Shakespeare.

A prince among the living they must be,
for princely wit and beauty they so wield.

Compose! strike two, move one, write another.
No, the flow is not quite right. Go back
another line– read it to recover.
aim for grace and symmetry and leave
love for another time– cast off the songs,
and hymns, and humming tunes and reach
out for the lines– a compass and a…

Out my window I see the stars
glimmer– liquid lights that shine
down straight into the chords I play
and the spring air whistles past
like gales that raise against a mast–
they swell my spirits to a song:
“and though it is oh so fucking hard
I keep my brow up to the night
and raise a glass up to that life,
who stole my heart, oh dear guitar–
I see them painted in the stars!”

And across the globe I’ll see this through–
I laugh and in drunken stupor cheer,
remembering the taste of lips divine,
I brag of being loved by you.

I look upon a swath of stars
and I miss your hands with mine
and the yearning lights a fire–
these embers, furious myrrh.

I look upon them in their sleep
and turn to face the empty
immense sea that pulls
my thoughts to thoughts of monarchy.

Not to quell, but to appease
the heat and put it to good use,
I take the imperial wine
to command creativity.

These lightworks are my realm;
my kingdom is this earth
and my subjects are the words
I work on the anvil of my soul.



Cheap tea connoisseur. Essayist and second rate bard. Putting pen to paper for individualism and radical cosmopolitanism.