The Poet In Me

The world sleepeth, not I whose rest flees when I hear the yearning cry Like the wailing knell in the churchyard ...and Bezaleel the son of Uri within comes alive. He teacheth my fingers to weave Worlds bygone and coming on leaves. I sail wherever with my disguised sceptre. Returning with a thousand ethereal sheaves. O Prisoner behind the bars of my soul What gainest thee so That thy errands hath made of me A mortal never my dreams told? What meanest this quest my pen doth run Like a thirsty hart after a pond? Night after night springs this strange lust And every adventure is a mystery born. The clamour of thy fiery harp Charms my heart like honey drops I yield as a man to the snare of a seductress I lay my seven locks on thy laps. It is now I who stands obsessed Keeping you alive like a songbird. I am holding tightly on what once was straw And my lips branded like the psalms of the blessed. No whiskey, rum, nor ale Doth taste like a mug from my inkwell. My ravished soul can no more wish for paradise It is here, I need not sail.