of blaming old lovers for my sadness.
Weary as a lost wolf, my sick howling
mute to caring souls I longed to caress
but chased away, my twisted face scowling,
my hooves clawing at air, all blind motion
to eyes gone. What now, prowler of the night?
Stay slouched on dark cliffs above black ocean,
long hoarse wail lying of your morbid plight,
draining artist’s essence through self-pity?
Or move toward light, seeing dawn approaching?
Time to decide. What’s this inside? Witty
whispers of some bright life now encroaching
on this blight? Some minstrel, imprisoned long
through fear’s delight, now sharing hopeful songs?
Roger Armbrust
May 27, 2010
