I live for the dream of hell to pay
and better words to arraign each thought;
alas, Dunning-Kruger bars my way
and up my tongue gets tied. Options float -
teasingly, playing peek-a-boo-you,
buckling swash through my jaded mind's eye,
first dancing into, then out of view -
leaving me clutching as straws flit by.
It's like the end of the Crystal Maze
where banknotes swirl in great profusion,
my thoughts flailing in a giddy haze,
a babbling sack of confusion.
All I ask here's one luckier streak,
a purple patch of requisite strength,
and once the inspiration, to speak
what's on my mind, lucidly, at length -
a fair expression of faith from me -
and have it mean something for someone,
to be my logos, a legacy
that swears, 'ecce poet' ere I'm gone.