Though oftentimes words soothe and comfort us,
I have, of late, found this is in reverse:
How can we love or even start to trust
A verse that leaves us lighter in the purse?
Each line that's bled costs half a whiskey more,
And sonnets tease and wile away my nights.
What ghastly lines would force us to adore
The perfect view without a shaft of light?
Unquenchable is ev'ry poet's thirst -
A sacrificial lamb upon the stone;
With pens, we scribble charms that leave us cursed -
Our words then cut the writer to the bone.
Do not expect to cast a magic spell
Without the water leaking from the well.