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Poem

From whence sway eloquence and lovely form,
     when together rule ugliness and gloom?
Within me, these clash in a perfect storm;
     and war like forces of triumph and doom.

This sense of threatening darkness now outshines
     the glory of composing joyful phrases.
But conflict, struggle, the crux of these lines,
     persist and flow in timeless, natural phases.

To laugh, or to weep? That essential choice
     (the one to weigh and judge) stands. Man desires.
Bards boldly long to sing free, and rejoice,
     like the revived who ne'er fatigues or tires!

So gloomy was my melancholic core,
I lost faith in rhyme's splendor once before.

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