What luminous trail we poets leave,
in proferétur persistence.
Quiescent in our cozen breve;
to feign pretence:
in mockeries of existence.

Where exercitation takes new life
or seeks senescent demons.
to shed such wearies of our strife;
and castigate:
embattled self-effusions.

For, now secenders glow so bright,
our own dark battles raging.
To paint our words in pitchblende light;
wit’s lambent flares:
and carbide pharos searching.

For whom but we, can profess see,
Chimera’s greater picture.
That takes the mind on its own spree;
of word’s own worth:
and emendator’s venture.

There lexica deems we need assess
astriction as our emblem.
The poet’s pen ne’er seek digress;
in pictured ink:
or to immerge its own dark kingdom.

Ten billion words have borne their light
in every aspect of enation.
How few of those still shine as bright;
or cry passé:
Whilst in their moment’s brief creation.

To shimmer there like lustred stars
true oilets of conception.
Those pulsars of their repertoires;
sees there again:
anamnesis’s carnage, of recollection.

For now, those words they gather dust.
its magnum opus now forgotten.
A relic of its aging trust;
tells an old tale:
to, schlimazel of sad inflection.

For now, the makers gather so
with solemn burdens of discretion.
What more a poet seeks to show;
beyond his scope:
in newest lights of his direction.

What banes are those who cannot see
age’s adage of endeavour.
Pen’s wondrous phrase of poetry;
Its labour’s writ:
Converging minds and hearts forever.

Mor.