in mists of time wrapped in a cold cocoon

A sage undisciplined in prose elite

The bleakness of anonymity pervades his lonely room

His task, his wish, to his good self to greet

To pen with eloquence and truth those thoughts that dwell in shade

His quill held in a hand honest and true

To speak in lingua franca unafraid of cruel tirades

His soul to bear to all varied in hue

His thoughts encompass realms of endless lands of mystery

Traversing paths now overgrown with time

A never ending need to rid the cloak of obscurity

And dwell in perfumed gardens oh sublime

He writes his quill an arrow dipped in wells of loss and pain

His scroll denoting ambiance with hell

His silent battle, the forces waging war devoid of blame

As through Dante’s gates of fire he now fell

He reaches in his sackcloth bearing distant memories

Removing one clad in deceit and lies

With tears revolving round the words as notes in harmony

He places them before your very eyes

He tells of love of loss of pain in decades of their years

In words of understanding and of care

As through the night ‘neath candle light the honesty of tears

Fall on prose composed by those who dare

And as he writes his words poetically upon the page

His thoughts of love now temper those of blame

A mixture of flawed innocence, laced with an endless rage

A magnificent array of truths eternal flame

And now his poem completed in the fullness of it’s time

lays torn and crumpled blazing on the fire

as thoughts of worth invade his ever unsure fragile mind

For the love he wrote of made this poet a liar.

Brendan.

.