Dying With the Ink and Pen

A flame of scarlet crept in a swift diagonal across my cheeks, Then a gentle sarcasm ruffled my anger, They felt a melancholy monotone beat of my heart; The world! This time, not a mere figment of a poet's fancy. This is not a swaggering air of braggadocio, Nor an atmosphere thick with flattery, ballyhoo and toadyism, Because I’m beaming with pleasurable anticipation, And can’t dally in maudlin regret over the past. Having evanescent shades of feeling, And flushed with a suffusion that crimsoned my being, I paused, stunned and comprehending, Because I’ve perceived the iron hand within the velvet glove, And felt the ironic rebound of my words in poetry. Having sacrificed the vulgar prizes of life, I’m done sitting on thorns, My hurrying thoughts are clamoring for utterances, Because I’m immured in a travail round of duty, The duty of living and dying with the ink and pen.