The Dark Poet
A waking up, do I, Dark Poet, need
to shake my creature core from sheltered sleep.
A seed has taken root as bitter weed
that sprouts from disappointments buried deep
inside me, where a well-hid wild thing
with armored skin lifts groggy head to breathe.
No fire escapes its mouth, for it must cling
to courtesy although its blood should seethe.
If roused, the beast could overstep its bounds
and though I’ve tamed it well, I sometimes hear
in dusky dreams its melancholy sounds.
Before the dawn its murmurs disappear.
On bitter weed subsists my dragon child.
Oh, should I let it rest. . . or wake the wild?
For Irma's Dark Poet contest
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