Old Poet

Tread warily old poet through twilight's divide
where the words play strange on the paper.
'Twixt light and the shade where perceptions collide
flickering its grasp on the taper.

 

I've offered my lot on the verses of time
for reasons bequeathed to plunder.
I have opened my soul and strove to divine
whilst pages were falling asunder.

 

On the dimming of day in passing behold
the disquieting hues of the evening.
It is there the dying of colours unfold
the end of my day in its grieving.

 

I fear mine own words as I into the night
though I take to my quill regardless.
I strain to behold through the aging of light
a glimmer of verse in the darkness.

 

Tending the pangs in the hollows and voids,
suturing the wounds of my pages.
The despairs of the past my clinic avoids
for I dare not there earn my wages.

 

In deceptions, I, 'till her vision appears,
an illusion soothing my yearnings.
Succumbing to truths in the poetry of tears
as reality alters my bearings.

 

Oh, she of the fairest e'er art e'er portrayed,
oh, she of the sweetest of maidens.
Oh, she of the heavens fore'er I'm afraid
whereas I of the heart's abrasions.

 

I fly o'er her tomb with the flocking of words
on the folding verses of sorrow.
On delicate feathers from fossilized birds
'till my quill to roost on the morrow.