I live for the dream of hell to pay

and better words to arraign each thought;

alas, Dunning-Kruger bars my way

and up my tongue gets tied. Options float -

 

teasingly, playing peek-a-boo-you,

buckling swash through my jaded mind's eye,

first dancing into, then out of view -

leaving me clutching as straws flit by.

 

It's like the end of the Crystal Maze

where banknotes swirl in great profusion,

my thoughts flailing in a giddy haze,

a babbling sack of confusion.

 

All I ask here's one luckier streak,

a purple patch of requisite strength,

and once the inspiration, to speak

what's on my mind, lucidly, at length -

 

a fair expression of faith from me -

and have it mean something for someone,

to be my logos, a legacy

that swears, 'ecce poet' ere I'm gone.