The toiling poet drank deeply of the sap of sane pleasures,
He exulted mightily in the cold beauty of dead stars.
He built careless bonfires of his demented sorrows,
And laughed a lunatic’s mirth in the light of their glorious blaze.

He sipped with resistance of a heart’s questing romance,
Mixed love maternal, familial and parental into a sloppy stew,
Which he then ate, wiping it clean with the bread of betrayal
Before draining the Scriptures dry for each last drop of peace.

In his toil, he wrung magic from the winepress of human nature,
Stole raw gems from the deep mine of inner thought.
He scraped sweetness free from the honeycomb of innocence,
And left his muddied tracks in the minds of those who read his words.

Yet none of this was sufficient to ease his manic need.
Every dream of his sleep became a nightmare of missing pieces,
Every rhyme a dancing will-o-the-wisp of promise,
Haunting and prodding the poet to further trial, and ultimate error.

But when he finally cast aside all dreams, all ambition,
He found himself floating in the cool dark of sanctuary.
Guided by a tiny glimmer of light just within his grasp,
He found his soul, and it warmed him for all time.