No thoughts pervade my wearied mind
except they fly like birds.
Exhausted, I no more can think
but scribble out these words.
To write a poem I find I bind
myself to patterns past.
Creating, I must always wink
at histories which last.
So oft I’m found dreaming awake
I’m doomed to wakeful sleep.
Rarely do I crawl in my bed
and peace therein do keep.
Eventually, I know I’ll break
like glass upon the floor.
Yet never do I want it said,
“Surely he’d have been more.”
Tale Told 