I met for years with contrary shades
of my own being, pressed heatedly my claims;
duly performed suitable penalties;
hauled from life’s mine tons of ore.
In fact, some arguments rang with truth,
bestowed its honor on me from both my sides;
however, most floundered in superstition.
Sometimes eloquent, I presented my pains
and my glimmerings in artificial light,
on which everyone I knew depended too.
None may speak for pains unfelt.
The scar is authority for the lash.
Piled dross recites the purity of gold.
Shaky drafts imbed worth in the final poem.
I have a small hill.
I like traveling long roads.
I have an ear for immaculate tone.
But I have forged no golden bell,
still work in congress to make a belfry.
about the author:
Keith Moul’s poems and photos are widely published. His latest chap called The Future as a Picnic Lunch will be released 9/15 by Finishing Line Press.