The poem stands accused.
'Threshold', 'omen' and all the rest.
The humble scribe explains.
The poem raises these phantoms
to drop them from a great height. Cursed words 
from the province of impish boys and girls
where superstitious souls conjour 
untenable worlds.
The part-time scribe will make it plain.
This amateur scribe works in the warehouse.
Here endless shelves hold the world's music.
A collection bloated by the raving shaman
howling vampire, schizoid maniacs.
The poem cannot tell how this miserable crew
comes to replace Tchaikovsky on prime shelves.
These demonic pretenders on waves of acclaim
hail from the same shadowy province
where superstitious souls conjour untenable worlds.
It's not the poem in a medieval cul-de-sac.
The poem resides in a neglected niche
no less passionate for that, and continues.
Follow swans, kicking waves behind them
labouring to rise; so many false starts.
It's not easy becoming an airbourne spirit.
We too are destined to fulfill our promise.