Too dense to break the veil thrown on the page
the one that haunts dreams with nightmares of day.
Too cowardice to smite the quill away
for fear that inspiration fades with age.
A touch of ghosts who have escape’d the cage
lightens a dim path to where brethren stay,
beyond slumber’s labyrinth; they decay
lest they be reborn from the ink’s Rokeage.
ear my faith and hide my knows in this breath-
everything I breathe is not oxygen:
thus, if not to die from darnedest death
,lend me ignorance’s birthed acumen
that I should write from the heart’s deepest depth
and yaw cud git a clue o’ whur I ben.