Poetry

as surely as the jester
hath no place on the throne,
I’ve no claim to even stardust
from the constellation that is
William, Robert and Emily

I’ve no wish to weave
tapestry from straw;
I hunger not for accolade,
nor despair for lack of fame

no, no, no, fellow traveler,
my sandals were formed
in the clay of assemblage,
that I might, like a good soldier,
follow their light

’twas ne’er my desire to
don their shoes, take hold their pen,
or stand in the shadow of their greatness;
for that would be strange fire
to this flesh indeed

my desire, my path, my purpose,
is to heed their eternal call,
throw open the window of time,

welcome into this sojourning soul,
the fury, sorrow, passion, and
true comfort of their wisdom

to live boldly in the presence of
divine and perpetual poetry,
that I may someday lie serenely
in its arms to breathe my last

let those upon whom the gods
have conferred the gift of setting
quill to parchment – write on;
that I might have food for my mind,
fire for my belly and wings for my soul

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