Funny how I do feel like a pawn,
before this now setting dawn.
Each day over before it has begun,
eclipsed by a forever waning sun.
Just another creature of the night,
sealed in tight within the write,
treading water in all of this ink,
struggling hard to not again sink.
For I have lived a life spent dying,
despite all this perpetual trying,
all of this grasping at straws,
while the curtain slowly draws.
Rolling the same rock up this hill,
documenting it all with this quill,
empty words on hollow lines,
forever tangling as feral vines.
And yet… this seems to be my fate,
as I once more now pontificate,
muse about the day to come,
despite the despair from which I come.
Dear S.
Oddly, this poem made me hopeful. I don’t even know why. Maybe this; I know you worked well and hard to make this poem and while you were doing it, you may have felt it relieve your sorrow and emptiness. Am I wrong? If I’m lucky, when I’m low and have the freedom to write, if I’m not put upon by some duty or demand and I find few words to write, it frees me a bit from my palatable discord. Is this it?
Thanks for writing this.
Jim
This poem gives me a feeling that the writer is tired but will continue their plight on putting words on the page. Nice;))
Lived a life spent dying…
Prolific and relatable.
Holding you in thought, LDF.
Powerfully penned, LDF. Amazing write my friend. Appreciate you.
Damian