why me? why am i torn of the abyss
for the slaying of the poetry?
why do i pestle the mincer of words?
waiting for the delivery of fresh meat,
from the prairie that is mind.
who chose me at this late date
to wait on the spirits of the rhymers,
to flagellate the shredded veil,
to nail every thought that might
be the message for the page.
why do i have to ache this way?
to say what?
when it is said i’ll know, i’ll know,
but what i don’t know is, why me?
there are so many feathers gagging
my mouth and still i have yet to eat the flesh.
they fly without feathers, even as i call return,
come back, why are you fleeing?
what should we?
and i must say we,
when i ask, why me? over, and over,
and over, when i don’t deliver
on so many pages hang the words
that do not last the wash of tears,
the bitter tears of frustration.
and, yet, perhaps it is not meant to be me?
then why can i not stop?
why am i me ing it, whingeing, whining?
when the pages are slaughtered with grapeshot words,
pages as dead as the verses in hearses,
call yourself a poet!?
and still i prospect the storm drains of my mind,
searching as the blood-eyed iron rails upon the sieve,
and never, never! the nugget. never!
so why me?
why do i seek the richness of words
in the mine that is spent, in the well that is dry.
is there one last jewel calling in the wilderness?
have me home. am i the only light for the way?
will my dying breath call it said?
will it lie above my name upon the page?
to be known as sagacity, the sage his muse.
she was born when he died.
he stayed the course,
and now he is gone.
he left the words that he had searched for all his life,
he placed them gently on the last page.
and closed the book on: why me?
why not you might ask;
because he found it,
did he not?