With words, my sentence fulfill:
the weak willed soul seeks to fail,
its too frail form doomed to fall
before bringing home the grail.
Too true; the trials and tests
that beset the searcher last
past the point where the first zest
wears out. Your whole fate is cast
in a breath’s breadth; there is time
for truth alone. You can find
a fool’s fitness in the rhyme
that in such straits comes to mind.
A rare few arrive alive;
ah, against such odds the scribe
in coughs and slow signs must strive
and wrest wild words to describe
What wonder their wandered path
has displayed. Most fail, their sad trail
littered with phrases, laughing
and half mad, lost in the veil.
So sentence me to madness –
I am glad to serve my curse.
This penance is not duress;
Others’ words would serve me worse.
08 APR 2004
