Alchemisland

Tabard got a cross on

Boon, snake medallion

Scrapes my mailvest

Rings ringing arms and chest

Armour to repel harmdoers 

Moon croissant shaped

Tattooing a fluorescent lunula upon the quiet lake

She wept and men slaked on the wend of its wake

No end, no wake, no death, no maker

Much time to make up for

One long eclipse, 32 years in transit

Concludes, I have no answer for why so long I languished

I use my lavish language to bulk out the scant sandwich

That is the outcome of my devoted practice, no one reading

No one cracked the spine of my divine volumes

No matter how I try the increasingly wide divide

Stymies any hope I ever had of living a writer’s life

I can inwardly defy, decry my daytime life

But I am confined thereto, my meekness brick by brick makes tomb

Enwombs me in bitter ineptitude, bitter at another’s even trying

To prideful, too pursuant of perfection to be fluid and effective

Too sure of my own intelligence, nothing anyone said meant

Anything to me, I was all vinegar about legacy

I was on my legs, you see, couldn’t sit still

Like I double dropped pills, facepalming by the windowsill

Reading over the swill I spilled onto the paper, be still 

My beating heart who could call this art, where to start

Every word is held in no regard at all, without regard for form

Or the ability to recollect earlier forms without resorting

To restoring my image therein, that you might adorn me

With your pleasantries, I gain dignity feeling seen

My scenes are the seeds of soon-vast cedars

No one sees them, yet they are eager to be out clean

Sprouting upward these mighty trees, clouds peek 

I speak no one save myself, finding there an equal

Even he agrees these works deserve no sequel