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Whip
I need a break, a minute’s breath of space;
The furious tempo driving me along,
a fussy temper, fervent all day long
to strive, stress, toil, scramble to keep the pace—
—the pace of a spent poet keeping face;—
enough to numb a hand that once inked strong
words, and made paper sound loud as a gong.—
and what a base disgrace…to lose the chase.
How many spears did that old poet shake,
which time has flung away(, or swallowed whole,)
that today we marvel at his masterworks?
What thousand wonders hide behind the break
of history?, what secrets, grand or droll,
lay low and lost within his epoch’s lurks?
Copyright ©
X F Lacasse
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