© Steve King
All rights reserved
I wish that I might write the way
that others do when they tell me
they’re moved by muses sharing free
all the things there are to say.
I wish I had that bully roost
with tones to echo in the vault,
whispers ever to exalt,
and every ease to shout my news.
I pray for an occasioned flight—
but only faintest stars align;
no new discovered worlds shine,
no comets blazon my midnights.
Alas, I’m tethered to this earth—
the world my lens, support and reach;
every word a bloody breach,
each new strophe an orphan’s birth.
No satisfaction to inveigh,
like every thought that comes to stay
I’ll treat it gently, simply say:
I wish that I might write that way
those others tell of, every day.
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