the Pauper Poet,
afraid not of the darkness, but the light that surrounds it.
perished, prosperity and the wanting for words.
talent terminated,
depth destroyed,
all cadences fail me now.

shaken by the power of unseen malignant forces,
I spiral down through darkness and sadness and rain.
and yet, unaccompanied by surprise or disbelief,
only an ancient memory of the premonition of impending doom.
a knowledge older than myself of events pre ordained,
can help to develop a passion for pain.

and yet, do I feel a sense of ownership, of pride
in the very resilience of myself?
yes.

but the ever growing fury
that began as a seedling now threatens to engulf all else by it's sheer magnitude.
soothed only by the hope, the instinct that,

oh pauper, dear poet of mine.
somewhere within you are incomparable riches,
unknown and unseen, which can be yielded to a kind and patient prospector
of true treasures

in the endless meantime I shall fight the desire for oblivion and peace,
and wait for you,
knower and seer.
and for the day when I am no longer afraid
of the light.