Do I have more in me?
Can I remain forever arrogant
Believing that poetry comes out at the end of my mind?
Or forever pliable to those that tangle my strings
In their fingers?
Must I force myself on another muse?
To collect the tears and distill imagination?
How far am I willing to go for such angry and fickle
How long before one takes pity – and puts the light to rest?
Will I notice when it’s gone?
Or will I write on, create monuments
Of stone for stone?
Keith Kennedy is a Pushcart and Rhysling nominated poet working out of Vancouver. Find him on Twitter.