I live a life perplexed by a force so wry
A heinous muting wind that smarts my mind
I muse; am I a poet or damned fool to try?
He would arrest my hand as I write the lines
The seething cauldron tips and fills the mold
I roam the halls of all the poet gods
In search of the sublime and golden verse
The rooms of secrets holds many facades
I must extract the prize though he lurks
The seething cauldron tips and fills the mold
I have no choice at all my die is cast
To scribble verse is my certain kismet
To do so I recall a tortured past
The mocker follows to fulfill his threat
Nevertheless
The seething cauldron tips and fills the mold