Keeping that incessant dragon from infecting his mind
He truly believed he could be that word messenger
A wordsmith for all seasons
Living in the poems bestowed upon him.
On the lookout always for a beginning
Knowing then there would be an end
Sometimes feeling blue, bluer than sea water
Pulverized by words.
Yet fully confident in himself that
On the far side of that mountain
Though it was a distance away
Word claustrophobia would lift
As does a mountain mist.
Thus he slew that dragon.
(c) Chris Black. August 2018
~The Poet’s Poet~