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quill pen on a stack of books

105. Indite

I can’t bare my odes down in vague lightings

Précising sheer and unclear I can’t convey immaculate writings

Like the sonnets of Shakespeare.

Albeit my cantos may have flaws and wrongs

Yet I’d love to write much more

On tragedy of some euphoric songs

Of dated Catalan lore.

I’ve dreamed to write on the abyssal cave

Then on the demonic faith

Whilst dreaming at times I do misbehave

Sensing the odes of Sylvia Plath.

I wholly doused in poems of laughter

But now I grope grief and mild;

Deeming high to rise even slighter

Like the wits of Oscar Wilde.