To The Last Syllable Of Recorded Time Poem by Jonathan ROBIN

No poet pure vents spent and private woe,
rants out of closet ego bruised, used pride,
as if none knew life's tide, too tested, tried,
sure's in for bumpy ride, uneven flow.
A passing shadow, here today, then go
our essence evanescent from outside
is rarely recognized although soul's cried
its years' tears on Time's washing line escrow.
Soul-song should channel understatements, show
seldom surface symptoms cut and dried
like wails at wakes, paid mourners in for ride
to pub to rub off face trace cased below.
Syllabic records offset petty pace
through metaphors outside time, person, place.