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
But,
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
