Hence The Night

Shakespeare, Webster, Thomas Browne
(And even Ford of less renown)
Pursued their wordlets through the town
And onto hillsides, where the crown

Of risen sun beamed majesty
And high delight on Tragedy,
On sighs of productivity;
For love of language, torridly
Enticed, was their proclivity.

But I was never one whose running,
Chasing, scribbling, ink-blot sunning,
Typing, pecking, fretting, punning
Efforts of a low-grade cunning

Turned the faces of the bright
Nouns and verbs within my sight
To notice me, to shine their light
Of warm approval.

Hence the night.

[Wednesday, December 20, 2017]