A Poem

Of all the fools, who

Crowded the wise and eloquent;

I was a lisping gate for muddy soles.

When sages bolted, and

Eschewed their vigor for ravages of fame;

I limped across marble halls, untamed.

Of all axioms of dying souls, rent

By verse, poisoned pens and blades;

I beheld lame joy slip through scrapped fingers.

And when limericks of defeat soil

Ears of hungry palates in chorus,

What would I do for my ghost burning underground?

Would frightened celestial bodies

Rip through my tattered cloak

Of song, or shall I perish in parodies still?