If painted by an unflattering brush
What concoction shall the subconscious construct?
I dream too many awful dreams
And fret each the words used in dejecting me
Index librorum prohibtorum, will my work be cast unto the forbidden
Or will redacted treatises compose themselves, only to be allotted the resemblance of being seen, by those whom my work’s intended for?
Index Expurgatorius. If this redact does devour, my precious words, in their enlivened hour, why may I ask, are some loved and others dispatched, to where broken chapters wriggle so very slow?
Potteresque terms for sure,
Yet as with magic,
The fear is real
Invective natures I may assume
Vituperation certainly could become my friend in flame
As can vexation when brewed within
To create a Jeremiad,
Before the eyes can even scroll
Seems premature, blinding
And a waste of thought and time,
Which serves no purpose, none at all.
Yet, it does seem like a place,
Where too often poets tend to stroll