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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