From the Parting Pages of Shakespare

Long I left this room of rhymes Where verses bought my pens A Price-tool that seems priceless But full of ink-prices-dress Where a lord, a noble and a king Read of the rhymes I bring; Where the table is set of a writer’s ten A fat pen plumping a poet’s pen' The rebirth is the spring of an offspring. Better I don't swear and loss my hair. Better I don’t drink from a vow’s spring, Better I don’t swear and loss my hair, Better I don't hide and stand fully naked, Like those Adams in their Eden. Better I don’t wonder and be fainted And be near death by then. That I know is true; that I grow is a growth. That I flow in my soul makes me a sacred soul, This is my load, this is my growth. This is my head under a coal. This is my head under a coal Oh! Weary soul put in a hole. Summer sank and sang me once before I died. For times are ever no waiting, But Stories ever telling, Music singing, Sound summer verses ever tied. Poets are called to write News in the sky Muse masked thoughts that never come by One sky to birth; the rebirth to write One wise and pen ready to write Do I fail to let my pen lie? Beneath the scroll, ancient deny? Do I let my ink pour the ground-? And offer my lips: do-d-hand? Kill, kill my stanza-shield And reap from a thousand mester’s field Pregnant are the woods After reading the minstrel’s tones Still, still stealing are those who steal They are replica of how they heal, A Regalia; same of an English man Speaking their lines as they can But there are many who heal like thee Unique, different just like me There are many who shall be The versifiers of now and thee O' morning grave shall bury youth With the moon mourning to eat the tooth O’ Evening stars shall we write And speak and speech from left to right Thou, parting pages of time Can we sing thou as a hymn? Thou ancient verse and wise Canst thou hose my knowledge wise?