Frailty of the Bone

This poem is a little late, but forgive me; it was a very full weekend. Poems about poetry seem to be somewhat of a theme with me, these days, so I pray it's not too boring. As a final note, I was having a certain amount of difficulty coming up with a title, but Pixie Rainwater happened by, and suggested I use the one you see now, so my thanks goes out to her. I dare not post a titleless poem.


Frailty of the Bone

Words work their lively spell upon the leaf
when patience exercises empty time,
and seems the muse shall never know the grief
of inspiration ended in a rhyme;

of agonizing hours worn away
to bare a single sentence from the stone,
or dim desire lost within decay,
and broken, with the frailty of bone.

For this is not the burden; this a fraud,
a fever dream of fair, unfounded ease,
that carelessly erects a grand facade
to elevate the abject from his knees,

while all the words that fall, as autumn rain,
so sweet and sorry to the open eye,
do find their founding in unwanted pain
and spring to life from graves, wherein we lie.