I
To the readers of my poetry,
To those who await my next line,
I have come to aire the truth,
The truth with no paintings of lies.
II
If not for my muse hanging in fogs of clarity,
If not for the spider web of fate that makes my faith stagger,
Counting off the odds of my second thought that strangles my decision,
I would have shown you the true habitat where creativity resides.
III
The best of me could have been seen and felt,
If not I'm a drunk poet whose muse is drenched in the spirit of fear,
I could have written a lullaby for you in the most sacred part of the jungle,
But to run that race I'm must belong to the lion kingdom.
IV
More lyrics could have spread forth my pen,
More words could have been aired from my very spoken word artiste,
More Eulogies would have swollen my very soul,
As they are laced carefully in the paths of my distinctive diction.
V
Words alone cannot lay hold the tracks,
As the race of being forever young is only a fantasy,
Just like I knew a day like this will break forth to the tides of the sun,
And age is in a bloody tournament of Life and Essence,
Where words will not be a suggesting truce,
To the world of creativity and the source of human Muse.
VI
But then the race must continue,
The path must be treaded even if forks are raised up on the tunnels,
Even if age continues to wrestle with my muse,
It's only a matter of how many or which one will be done.
VII
How many will be done with the realm of age and muse,
Which one will be done in the world of age and creativity,
When age is racing on like the ticks of a clock,
And creativity is also fading due to age's clock,
But then age and creativity will always forever be united,
The question now is, what will be the fate of our Muse?

© Fearless Lines