Personified (In Ezra) Poem by John Weber

Wriggling my way
        across the page
        I thrash about,
lost by perspective and
        challenged to
        summon only
        significant
passions expressing clarity
        of struggle.

The knowing face of
        immortality proffers
        gracious wisdom
from antiqued parchments to
        reassert with
        fervent hope
more than just meter or instinct
        until I find

Ezra Pound in my
        brain with a crayon
        hacking away like a
swashbuckler, killing out of
        joy the weakest
        tendencies of
        gluttony:
convention for the sake of
        tradition.

I hold my head in my
        hands, lamenting my
        fuzzy banality and those
cherry lips pedantic whispering
        tales of glory in
        brutality most
        vindictive
without regard to purpose or
        veracity.

Your tome falls open as it
        topples from my
        ossified grasp,
gravity's blank urge grumbles
        until words blaze with
        clarity reminding
        journeys are
more than simply driving to
        destinations.