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Untitled Repose

Because I am an emotional man,                                                                                                                                                                 Who has it in his head that emotions are irrational,                                                                                                                                     And whom in the absurdity of this misery,                                                                                                                                              Prefers to hold the hand of these abstractions,

So then as my pen touches down on paper,                                                                                                                                                      I am made whole and then released to roam.

Thus it is to be,                                                                                                                                                                                             That the young and growing poets dream,                                                                                                                                                                  Is ever to remain alive in the hungry heart,                                                                                                                                                     Of said endless illusion.

On the whiteness of this page,                                                                                                                                                                      Past the singular threads bleached black,

Lays the grunt of the imagination grazing on the plane of our reality,

And in this native hue of resolution,

~Like Others Past~

I am none the less:

“Sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought’’

And all my sins remembered,