I once put pen to page and wrote out rollicking rhymes.
I strung words together like pearls on a pearly necklace.
People, (poets, I mean) swallowed my languid lines, politely.
They fed-back comments, kind not cruel.
(since they themselves had sweat that bloody flux,
which the uninitiated call ‘poetry.’)
I then spilled my soul and bared my all in verse.
True love was my muse, first love made me choose:
Lorraine, that gleaming goddess, with the laughing eyes,
who shone like Venus when the moon won’t rise, but like the gods divine she winged her way.
Abandoned me, my love she would not stay.
This shadow of the man she had destroyed
in sorrow sang, to bring her back to life.
Then pain poured freely from my unseen wounds:
a sorry soldier’s secret now bled out,
a composition cure without a doubt!