A Bard's Lament

A poet's feelings on bearing his heart and soul in poem only to have it ignored.

A Bard's Lament



Insidiously silent, my muse is little help
creating bold, new verses some might read
my trusty quill is dry as well so all that I can do
is open up a vein and let it bleed

the scarlet ink will weave a web infused with rhythmic rhyme
flowing from an antiquated brain
leaking words voraciously much like the bloody hand
that clutches hope to ease an inner pain

dry papyrus drinks new thoughts conceived in ancient ways
and a poem takes shape upon the page
full of whispered promises and longing to be free
like a poet filled with quiet rage

letters formed from tears and blood become coherent lines
the lines become a song my soul must sing
and from the depths of private Hell a voice is faintly heard
praying that some god will let it ring

as the final thoughts are penned, and blood has ceased to flow,
now I sit and tremble, full of dread
for if no kindred spirit comes to share what has been told
then this poet may as well be dead


C. Lon R. Bruso