When I consider poems I might write
and whether words I sing might last an age,
I hear the urgent pleadings in the night
of unused words denied the impatient page.
There’s envy, lust and murder waiting there
and every sin that plays upon a stage;
so nothing good could force these words to prayer:
such evil would ignite the impatient page.
Though wars and havoc vie for poet’s touch,
and lust produces fuel for readers’ rage,
I stall and fear to form or trust to luck
the words that scream to fill the impatient page.
And so I turn and toss my pen away,
and so words wait, denied the impatient page.