On the craft

So I am seer,
magician,
mundane prophet
to whom the voices sing,
always welcome and dear.

A million times liver
in worlds of verse and line
where the deepest pain
might still sting,
but every sin is work of the divine,
as declared by the king
and the politician.

Avid drinker of goblet

holder of ode and sonnet

which allows my soul to remain

and pulse in every second

of beautiful eternity.

Alchemist of the untouched,

I take creamy, rich milk

from the toughest stone.

I wrap my most open heart,

in its broken pieces

- so they don't spread apart -

within sound made silk.

Is this curse?

Is this the muse's

way to bless me

for what I keep supressed?

Oh, it could have been worse.

To be a poet

is to be doomed

in the sweetest way;

dice roller in life's bet

for the higher the price

the more willing I am to pay.

19/10/2016