No Match For The Poet I’m Afraid


Struck by the moon, the stars, the night
Their cryptic messages, their laden secrets
Stricken by their fathomless mysteries
Assay some ham-fisted interpretation, then
Slink away, disheartened, hoping no one saw
Some misstep shatters even that lame illusion
Wiser to tread more carefully … or never venture
Beyond the closed windows of a silent room

About Ben Naga

The Spirit that graces me with its passing has no name and stems not from thoughts and words, though it gathers them up as it flows, but from feeling.

Posted on September 9, 2012, in Poetry, Writing and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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