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SENTINEL POETRY #28 |
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to struggle ending heartfelt torture between the ironies in rhymes the burst of tears is beyond my conscience. The chills on the spine, but not from drafts the windows fixed and tightly shut. The winters breathe beneath the heat of callous tubes to warm my feet. Lord Byron won't survive this frame that petty space to spur a scribe, where so insane or rather vain I failed to spell a bold word, bribe. A blurry past at times remains the scattered segments of vanished fame: Now scatters only rain my arduous dwelling's not the same. The moistened eyes enraged by words, the page possessed by avid pupils I'm fond of my pithy Lord, The flamboyant - George Gordon! |
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