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I heard taunting echoes and scurrilous snarls.
It was my conscience, and I listened as it spoke
in accusations, contemptible remarks aimed at me.
Shameful words delivered to break my fallen spirit.
In mocking voice of Shakespeare's Hamlet, I heard,

"Fatuous one, why does your writing hand quiver,
mimicking the trembling lips of a child in fear?
You dare to call yourself the poet you once were, 
but you're nothing more than a joke.  A bard no more."

Guilt became the culprit tunneling through my mind.
As a passionflower shrivels on its vine when dying,
the abrasiveness of that soliloquy drained my soul,
purging the passion in my heart of its need to write.

It's my own foolish notion, my oppressive thoughts
that caused me to shiver on the ramparts of my mind.
Blinded by tears, I wept over my planted seedlings,
and cried for abandoned rhymes on crumpled pages.
Discarded by the hand who begot them, they littered
the floor. For this I was filled with remorse and regret.

That mockery continued to pummel my aching breast,
when it ridiculed me as a "joke," provoking me to anger.

"A self-proclaimed bard who has forsaken his task,
should put down the quill and live in disgrace."

There was no saving grace for me. My seedlings died.
I offered no nourishment for my verses to survive.
My heart was lost in memories of when I took flight,
writing for hours, burning oil throughout the night.
My heart yearned to pen another romantic sonnet
but without confidence to bolster the poet in me 
how could it come alive to thrive in fourteen lines?
I feared my heart only beats to keep my body alive.

Rows of green sprouted thoughts have all withered,
thirsting for a drink of ink, dying in fields of grief,
and I, their neglectful sower, helplessly, I sat 
as time elapsed and I watched them slowly expire.

The only seeds I've watered are those of self-doubt.
Never will poems grow from my furrowed brows.
I've leeched them with salty tears of frustration.
and for this, I do not seek salvation or redemption.

My ink well of impetus and ideas sprung a leak,
or maybe it was a new watering hole I needed.
I had not one drop to quench their thirst
no morning dew, nor afternoon shower 
to give my wilting buds a reprieve in relief.
I tried to rewrite them all, or so I thought,
but half-hearted attempts ended with doom.

Not one more rhyme could I rescue from pain
and suffering; mine and theirs for hope is gone.
My fear was that I could no longer express myself 
in detailed imagery, nor with emotional voice.
I’d fallen in the gaps, blank spaces between lines.
There was no fire burning in me, so I've retreated.
 
No wonder my pages remain barren and blank,
except for the blotches I didn't bother to blot.
My parchment lies in a state of immortal decay.
I relinquished my feathered nibs, my useless quills,
and prayed that this bereft poet may be forgiven. 
I took a bitter drink from damnation's cup, 
a dry Cabernet, tannin-laced by my own hand.


December 30, 2021
My Significant 2021 Poem Contest
Sponsor: Beata Agustin
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