You used to weave a web of charming words
That sought to fuse a thousand million nows
And prompt a flock of sweetly singing birds
To step down from their bright-green mossy boughs.
Though fortune never featured in your care,
You saw yourself obliged to deal with fame
And passed through life as one who’s drunk on air,
Your mind as all-consuming as a flame.
But now you’ve done away with all of that
And work to keep your brain from falling back
Inside a darkly deep fermenting vat,
In which both sage and fool shall lose all track.
And, though you know that fate’s not far away,
You’re happy having won another day.
Photo by Yannick Pulver on Unsplash
Writing
