I write because my time is limited and my imagination is not.
A deranged convict And an exhausted elder Trade non sequiturs
By D. J. Reddall2 years ago in Poets
The hideous disease of empire Bifurcates reality completely: There are those who are of use, and others Who will be of use, or vanish neatly
Some will mutter that you are not too bright Most citizens of imagination Are odd in public, but in dreams delight Prone are they to grim self-flagellation
The greatest story Has a design so perfect It's invisible
Let it get weird, confusing and obscure Use the vexing, esoteric diction Infect imaginations; give no cure Generate a poetic addiction
They will sneer and deceive and betray And your dignity will remain pristine They will cast a shadow on your bright day
There will come a day When complaints and excuses Outnumber essays
Some grim foes seem colossal, gigantic We dwindle into insignificance Faced with them, few can remain romantic Against such monsters, hope has little chance
What sort of author Gives you a life you must fight Merely to sustain?
“Summer afternoon—summer afternoon; to me those have always been the two most beautiful words in the English language.” --Henry James
Distinctly yourself You differ from the many A word in silence
That exquisite frisson of covert joy That capers through the flesh of the censor Arises from the power to destroy What took everything from the creator
