The Soul Of A Poet Poem by SPC Kellaway

I see my tainted history, lest we forget
what ails this troubled mind. In jest I
sing my garbled tales of lost tomorrows
and step too far across the precipice of fate.

I strum my mute guitar to thousands of hidden
voices, strangled by the bewitching tremor
of a stormy sea of discontent and fear, and
counting backwards, become deaf once more.

I find a peace in a torrent of unmistakeable
decisions, and wallow long and deep amongst the
angry golden butterflies who seem indifferent to
a multitude of sins and wanton crimes of passion.

I leave my energy awash with static eccentricity but
wander in a field of ceaseless harmony, smiling and
laughing uncontrollably as if my mouth has gained it’s
independence and left that place for freedom and nobility.

I carry a torch for every cowering moonbeam whose
luminescent light will travel less than I do in a nano
second of pure thought, believing, as I do, that it is not
the taking part that is the aim nor the tide that turns.

I become once more the beast that I am not and the hope
that flees to find it’s true hostility, beckons quietly and
not inconceivably towards a lost tribe of tortured spirits.
I accept the hidden tribute and gently weep the bile away.