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The Poet's Lament

Dimly, through the distance, glows a light,
As tho' to mark the end of this dark tunnel;
Out of reach, only barely within my sight;
Onward contending, waging a vigorous fight,
Yet slipping back, as down some oil-slick funnel,
I strive to give my faltering fancy flight.

Straining against an inward opening door,
As tho' by pushing I might change the hinge,
Or diving down, encountering ocean floor,
I vainly strive to deeper dive the more;
Upon my sanity doth my poor pen infringe,
Leaving quaking vanity reeling sore.

Ah, such lines! Sad lines of bitter verse
From one who's not, but wishes he were great;
He in his dreams his greatness doth rehearse,
Knowing that sad silence is much worse
Than answering that siren song of fate,
With her recurring paucity of purse.

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