Delving

I have always been one who delves,
unmoved by books gathered on shelves,
no longer willing to still pretend—
I prefer each raw beginning to its end.

So I set off once more this night,
armed with pen and paper for the write,
into this endless velveteen dark,
where every word may strike a spark.

Never sure of what I’ll find
when I walk away from this daily grind,
forsaking all that remains so prosaic,
to dive even deeper into my mosaic.

Casting these darker poetic spells,
I watch the ink as it slowly swells,
then spills in echoed silence on the page—
a reverent hymn to a forgotten age.

For the dull tenor of these times
may be the most heinous of all crimes.
So I continue questing for any verse
which might just shatter this tragic curse.