shall i write another sonnet now? nay, shall i
write another song? shall i succumb to the thrum
on my heart beat sweet fingers i have dared
not dream so long? shall i try to ply a new troth, blaze
a fresh way through, to light a hopeful smile anew
beneath this long-hallowed hanging brow? shall i strive?
or is it a lie, luring my fantastic heart to inflate,
great with scheming song, to float a bare moment
unencumbered of doubt and fear, ethereal, ere
crashing again, in pathetic wreckage of brain, heart
and pen; hope and energy spent, back on the far shore
of the broken continent of love, back pinned, eyes
baked open in the empty stare of the arid plain:
the strain or stain and blame, and finally shame.
~c. 2002