A Poet's Greatest Fear

Every poet fears that final phrase.

Not of words they speak,

but of the last passage

authored by heart.

They fear the day

when the great scarlet muse

that spills secrets toward soul

packs away the golden goblet

and leaves without warning,

for every poet knows

on that day

so too will leave

their life’s purpose.

They fear the hour

when the golden eyes

so kindly bestowed

degrade and diminish,

inviting darkness to soul,

and revoking their gift

to see beauty that others do not.

It is thus a race

against the onset of eternity

to seek what is hidden

and pick the ripest fruits

from the vines of creativity

which might grow heartily

to live beyond the breadth

of their fertile plot in time.

I must solemnly accept

that too am a damned subject

of the tyrannical monarch

that calls itself fate

living in the shadows

awaiting timely recompense:

The banishment of my mind

and so too expunged, the chance

to weave my words to poetry.

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