I’m the poet of the peaks.
A sad, sarcastic soul who seeks
some solace, in his twilight days
before his hair falls out or greys.
I’m the poet, past his prime,
who’s running out of rhyming time.
I’m fragile as a fractured star,
redundant as a Russian Czar
I’m the poet, some may say,
who long ago had lost his way
midway upon life’s journey, bleak,
without a paddle, up the creek.
I’m the poet, born and bred
for sorrow, so my star sign said.
My critics cast a crueller curse:
that I’ll run out of love-struck verse!
I’m the poet, nonetheless,
at least I’ve style and some finesse.
Maybe too sophistication
and deffo, I’ve determination!