BEYOND MY TIME
Was I born beyond my time?
I often wonder, if in rhyme.
To see the works of Poe and Frost
Knowing, today, the art is lost.
I look unto the winter sky
And heave a melancholy sigh.
Oh, what would Byron charge this to?
But shallow minds, I must construe.
John Keats, be damned, the thrill is gone
When none might know the liaison
Wherein the heart and mind immerse
To bring to life the joy of verse.
And, oh, the revelry of grief
That binds my hand gives no relief,
In view today's unbidden cold.
Ah, how cheaply the pen is sold!
But I, though starved, will not affirm
The price given, come Death or worm.
‘Tis my predicament of choice,
At least in this, I can rejoice.
But dreams of those who dream as I,
Aspiringly, are damned and die.
[This message has been edited by Michael (edited 02-26-2001).]