Asking indulgence for weaving words,
I declare myself a minstrel for one day.
Collect feelings and ideas rhyme
To present at even heart, wounded by sway
Of one’s shadow who hangs over, catching
Every breathe of you, your every take
To set “mis”, and sweepingly you’re raging
At the words, which are to be replaced…
Nay, poet (if you feel like this),
Burn that indulgence – it’s free for you
To retain creation as it is
Without minding someone’s wretched needs,
Someone’s orders, someone’s absurd lections
Someone’s wants, somebody’s weak reflections…
Leave this for creative-like and common,
Or become an epilogue of tears…
Asking indulgence for weaving words
© Copyright: Виллард Корд, 2008
Свидетельство о публикации №108033000734
Свидетельство о публикации №108033000734
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