A singer’s complaint
I wish I had a voice to sing my griefs
and griefs to sing
griefs that were singable
signable
but what petty purpose is inherent in this life
of easy negligence
forgotten diligence
words spread thin in a sea of words
every one making the others suffocate
for lack of limiting space
and for the excruciatingly quiet
desire
to fly
I say let those loves loved which you left behind
plot and play with plumes and plums out of their own exotic climes
let you for those loves loved in leisure realise their true place
let poetry be writ and prose expand
let roses wear their colours
and recorders forget their call
for alas
the only lovely play is hid behind the curtains of time
and I concealéd by the same
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