The words of the poet were never enough – they kept him in keep yet spent his last penny

The page waged all awhile his mind intervened – the war with his lacklustre insides

Mild to violent and back again – the cumbersome and sensuously suggestive image of a descriptive in-between

Hot to produce but utterly unaccustomed – the gnarl of that angry and agonised well-wishing pen which will no less send him to his beckoning grave

Braver than a thousand lesser souls, who will say that they failed to kiss the ear of an angel

Still waiting … still failing to listen