My cloud nine moments
of subtle success,
explodes like lightning
to wake my distress;
my flaccid pen-esteem,
my crumpled paper-pride,
rose my endowed near-death eclipse
for mounting I on steeply ride;
and I feel rainbows,
I sense a calming;
like the autumn of Octobers
perching bright on my palming;
my half-crafted fingers,
like overused candles,
in the bulks of my columns
all my thoughts couldn't handle;
yet, I'm alive;
I feel alive from relief,
a brief exhaustion overpass
into the stocked pile of my leaves,
for in poetry I breathe;
more essentials for life
a drop of joyous verses chord,
along the lullaby of my strife;
and I'll be no less alive;
to the extent of my patience,
to the voices of my poetry,
that seduces my silence;
'guess triumph's a piece
of my unsweetened pastry,
I consumed as though dying;
just to live in my poetry.
