A Poet's Twilight

In me,
confusion hath made his masterpiece,
muddling divine reason with egotistic treason,
sometime causing all true life to cease
at others incensing me to wall-defying passion
and furies later,
blood spilling from my forehead,
I wish that I were dead...

and turn again to vulgar elixirs
which only make me sicker
in every sense and dimension...
except sometimes profound comprehension

Explanations I have none...
I've felt too little of the sun,
too much cold wind when I was young
and now live by the pen
in the land of the gun

My shame is swollen great
with fooleries which can't be undone
and cannot be dwelled upon
or soon I'll be gone...
dragged down by their weight

Yes, I've seen too much anarchy,
practiced too much dishonesty,
harbored too much insanity...

and yet, drunk again,
I see a purpose in this composition,
which otherwise I'd erase
simply to save theatric face...

more I will not say,
but the very globe begins to fray
and the very stars seem to beg
for new poets bloody truth to proclaim!!