Thursday, April 11, 2013

V. 2, #15: April 11, 2013

With thoughts all dandelion down, my brain
flung to the four winds like a sailor's song
I sit to wring the ink out once again,
from wrinkled sheets of poetry. All wrong,

But like the sacrifice of Isaac, asked
to test his father's heart and check his pride.
I offer to the Muse this daily task
In hopes that when She pleases, She'll provide.

So let the wretched ink flow from my pen,
in Voynich, beautiful and meaningless;
If I keep at it, maybe now and then
a little treasure will my crimes redress.

Tonight I might have nothing fine to say;
but I will live to write another day.


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