Why I Left All The Work Undone

Art and creation cost me ever more in soul,

they drain my vital cache by the barrel full.

Once emptied, I retreat from paint and brush,

run from the words that haunt me in the hush,

hold still the tongue that whispers when I sleep,

and close those roamless eyes through which I seep.

.

Once eyelids clash I find I'm young again,

but there's nothing in the dark worth ink and pen.

I try to conjure up my favorite things,

but find my little hands lack royal rings,

so shadows hobble forth and laugh at me,

and taunt me with a mocking bended knee.

.

I run to neverwhere, but find I'm stuck in tar,

of course, my feet could never take me far.

I launch my heart above the grasping ground,

build a country of rose tints in which I'm crowned,

dream within my dream of fondest things,

ponder wherein from such wonder springs.

.

But then a hammer strikes me in the chest,

a stinging doubt - the shadow of my best.

It lingers now, and never ever leaves.

I trudge with its dark water in my greaves,

and sing again, and write, and paint the beast

that lurks within. His shadow never ceased.

.

No matter what I make, I can dream more,

the moon is always judging, the silvery whore.

She casts the shadow and she pulls the thread,

that haunts the real with what's seen in bed.

.

I'll never reach the heights to judge another,

I suck, at almost everything, why bother?

Instead I just judge me, in bed below,

and from above, I strike a mortal blow.