Song of a Poet

For what it's worth, I'm no poet,

But it was once put to me a certain way,

That I have a something for metaphor,

And now there is nothing left to say.

Though still, I could stand repeating,

One verse competing,

One tired old drum still beating,

But that, my love, is self defeating.

Failing catastrophe I think,

And for it, I'm grateful, so grateful I'd wager,

Since I don't have much to take from myself,

Being of dull mind and word is safer.

Though still, I could stand repeating,

One verse competing,

One tired old drum still beating,

But that, my love, is self defeating.

And If you've heard a Raven's cry,

And mistook it for a dream or happy lie,

I wonder if you'd ever thought of why

Such dark birds come to you to fly?

Though still, I could stand repeating,

One verse competing,

One tired old drum still beating,

But that, my love, is self defeating.

So life is very long they say,

And in many ways it's true,

But spending life a hollow man,

Can't be good for you.

Break the pattern if that's what you do.

But patterns aren't always full of gloom,

Maybe, if you'd just see it through,

No raving goodnight will loom,

and the light might rage in you.