For my craft
I exercise late into the slumbering night,
when even the moon has left
and the corridors echo
with shadows and whispers
of ambitious souls;
I labour by a single light.
I'm not here for praise or recognition.
It is an unrequited love
or expedition;
I'll do it all again tomorrow
but for a rare smile,
the opening of a blossoming bud
whose seeds were sown
or scattered about my field.
For in the morning aurora
and the cry of the cockerel
call me to my craft.
Literary killings: I am literally penning a poem every week for a year. Inspiration is taken from various poets (see labels on each poem).
No comments:
Post a Comment