When Doubts Condems Poem by Bill Cantrell

I have diligently gathered all of my poems
and I have weighed them for what they are worth
What was thought as gold, now I clearly see,
In the moment of test, they abandoned me

My inkwell was an illusion, a cistern where stagnant waters seeped
My cupbearer mixed cloves and honey with ink
my pen was fooled and so was I,
paper pure with pulp, from rice hung out to dry

I have chased the poem of all my dreams,
though corridors of endless turns
At the end of the day, the ones that stay,
we're to friends I met along the way

Now I shred my poetry, with not one regret,
only to toss its remains into a kindred soul
‘‘tis there my pen will choose to drink
and hopefully, they choose to set me free

For the perfect poem has been my quest,
I have left all others as tumbleweeds
And now it occurs to me,
the perfect poem, will never be

Sun to set, sun to rise,
It is not the page or refined ink
A new day starts, new lessons learned,
poetry must forever burn

And so we stay warm