Not To Keep Returning The Subject To Myself

Photo by Kindel Media on Pexels.com

Not to keep returning the subject to myself
But there are certain truths I must understand
I’m no one special, a mere footnote
A history to be written, though not as planned

Dreams & hopes that never came to be
A rakish poet nor grizzled old typesetter
Through the years & false daily realities
It is inexplicable the mundane became better

So I find myself with a specific freedom
To be able to move without any sort of cosmic retort
For I have faith in love, fate & ultimate grace
Allowed to live without any innate need to stop short

They No Longer Play Poetry On The Radio

Photo by Anthony on Pexels.com

They no longer play poetry on the radio
No longer exposed to life’s contextual details
We’re all lost; floating through time
Enchanted; told to swallow modern fairytales

But I’m trying to work out the specifics
Finding the reasons between the transistors
I’m guessing we’re still prone to biology
& physical failures of why I can’t resist her

Empty Wine Bottles Clink; Devoid Of All Inspiration

Photo by Anastasia Shuraeva on Pexels.com

Empty wine bottles clink; devoid of all inspiration
But that’s not the way you remembered they bled
Choosing the perfect wording for posterity
A trembling shadow of what the poets once said

We once set out to create a fresh universe
But that’s not the way I can any longer think
Falling in love with strange, beautiful women
The source & reason for all the dedicated ink

Our souls entwined in deliberate communion
But that’s not the way that I came to be lost
Specific writings to engrave our cosmic lust
Forever entombed within this highland frost