Late In The Day

 

My poems spring no more on stress-free feet
nor hallowed ground nor untouched wilds they walk.

Ever-present inflamatory gout
and something they call fasciitis burn.

My steps become a mechanical hobble
comical I guess as I walk through flames.

What kind of poets press on without hope?
The ones with unfailing inspiration.

The ones lacking the view from Everest
speaking of wonders right there at their feet.

My inspiration as the stars to a mountaintop
is universal but as close as breath.

"Reader, I married her..." may not help you
love poems but will help you understand.

The miracle of poetry has no end

◄ A Song Of Meritocracy

Eight Billion Cells ►

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