This year is almost at an end
And I have barely written a thing.
It seems my pen has taken wings
And nested in a gloomy field.
Veiled or rather lost
Is my trust for my own lute.
A wailing wind, wavering courage;
I dare not ink my thoughts so bold.
But here I stand on the precipice of this year
That I vow to write more solemn and
Some on silly things - Dwelling
With poetry overlooking the wild extravagance
of an imaginative mind, too many
that each must be one of a kind,
And I, also one of a kind
In a land where man should admire
The starry Nights and wonder
How such a God would care so deep,
That He would leave the space Inbetween.