does the melancholy come
before the sorrow
or is it the other way around?
does being a fool make
me a poet
or am i a poet because
i was first a fool?
if my hands were steady
enough to hold an instrument
i could be your darling bardling
and sing you into immortality
but my voice is as shaky
as the rest of me
even when you’re not around
and there’s nothing poetic about
a bard that can’t hold a note
without going all to shambles
is there, my love?