“How best the mighty work he might begin Of Saviour to mankind, and which way first Publish his godlike office now mature, One day forth walked alone, the Spirit leading” —Paradise Regained, Milton
I wrote before I read enough
and now with words as with toys play
saying in darkness what dark things say.
No light lifts me up, nor truth; I squawk
in prose, pretending it is poetry.
I seek to wrap my words in wings
of precious books, hoping to be author and king.
But my speech does not speak. It is a thing.
Vanity hired me. Lies and cliché my cars.
I walk through my houses unsleeping.
Words do exactly what I say.
Mine, they are. Yet nothing else obey.
I pity myself and seek your pity.
The clouds are more sublime
than my speech. I scorn wise Plato, audacious Milton,
the tribes of Romantics clothed in rhyme.
I have a voice like a cough.
I told you I was me and took my greatness off.
I went into the wilderness where prophets have gone
but did not contemplate. And now I am gone.