Cross corrogrus.

In the hour of mine,
Between egotistic dreams and wakeful lonesomeness
I wrote a poem that I thought was good.

Its words sat, perched on their roosts like spring hens
Waiting for the eruption,
The crack of an egg and the poke, that small and unsteady
Brush of a head on their hinds;

My words effectively sat on life
With their heavy backsides

And to look back on a time;
I once loved an instrument,
And mine was sublime.
Her body called to me waking hours in night.
And I would write symphonies just to sing lullabies by her.

Her torso slowly filled with soot,
As the body I loved grew akin,
To aches,
To pains, and ravaged within.

I once, once upon a day loved the sky,
The sunny outcries,
Its fanciest colours brushing across the ocean of clear,
Brandishing its different emotions as good and terrible promoters,
Of sleet and hail, Ice drops, the snow,
Strong winds from the East,
Cold ones from wherever people shivered to the bone.

And then all too abruptly,
The sky swept from me my youth.
When as a child, it’s shiver left me aloof.

I cannot say, no, that my loves were for vain
Purposes that never profited anyone per-se,

For if I glimpsed at an oracle

Or crapped on a golden chain

My reception would been nothing,
But cold and hysterical.

But my love for the pen,
The joy of its messages,
I adore now, even then.
Words and words alone only tell,
The story of death, and love;
The story of hell foreshadows all I can break,
With my redlettered ink and my
‘for.goodness.sake’