A line,

Within a poem,

Can stand, like soldiers stand,

To carry through, without demand.

 

A line,

Within a poem

Can give, with deadly stealth,

The riches of the author’s wealth.

 

A line,

Within a poem,

Can dream the dreams you dream

To leave you helpless, in its scheme.

 

And, inward looking, sees the strain

Of that wits end-weaved pain

The scars that tell the story there

Of a soul laid open and bare.

 

Dreams yet, of dreamless slumber

Without the pain to encumber,

As the author lifts and weaves

His pen through scattered leaves.