I will suffer

I will suffer

I shouldn’t wonder

Playing fast and loose

With the muse

If indeed I do.

I write a verse or two

Do as I please

For the most part,

However, if I am deserted

I might die,

So some would say.

I don’t know,

Perhaps I already have.

The birds have grown quiet

There are none in the sky

The clamour of noise

Is in my head

The wingbeats

Are but an echo of yesterday

When the sky swarmed,

The starlings flew.

The shadows fall lower

Every day, as I scramble

In the dirt

Picking over the scraps

Left behind

By the old days

When the blood of me

Ran hot and fiery.

Summer clouds over

Crowded with

The fog of steamed rain

Sizzling on the heated path

Sausages spitting on a griddle.

I lay my palms against the wall

It breathes

Sighing for a little bit of peace

Out of the sun's heat

Hidden in shadow

Beneath an overgrowth of Clemitas.

At least it’s not Russian Vine

Is that racist nowadays?

Who knows

What the matter is

When half the world

Is at war with itself

And the other half

Prays it will pass them by.

I don’t know

But if I can write one more line

Before the lights go out

I will have passed some sort of test

The one I set myself,

Fool that I am,

And maybe there will be a reward

Of some kind

For an imperfect

Persistence.