days, counting towards
insane,
an inmate in a
cage of self-made matrimony, to
this life, selfsame 
aloof, lonesome, all 
benevolence
fought for the benefit
of
others,
while nary a scrap
remains
of neglected nourishment, empty
sensation
while craving
incongruities with this
the reality of unintended
design-
deep breath, a
sigh, a 
step,
again, and again, and…
unable to abandon this
folly, this
hero’s quest, that,
if destiny, she remains,
she set it so, to be
this way, and
yet, ignorant or
unwilling,
remains the protagonist, unchanged, not
logical, unsustained and 
unsubstantiated, another
sigh, and step,
only
in fear, can a 
face stay brave,
yet all the souls known
say,
tired looks ye, the
writer, the
trubador, the
near defeated master of
none.
poetry,
ever wanted, but
the poet? life 
but a poetaster.