Written In Envy Poem by Ian Bowen

How lucky you are,
smeared in a sickly talent.
Tell me!
I must know;
where and how,
this ability was born,
to write such words;
that rhythm so tight,
I've never
heard or seen.

Do you think
it is inherent, or
learned by fastidious
candle practice,
on dark nights
when we mortals
hug pillows, or
dirty-talk with spouses
beneath the flapping sheets
and sails of galleons?

Or maybe, just maybe,
you are helped-
from beyond the grave
by sleeping poets,
who now rest in cold
unscripted granite beds.
Do they ghost-whisper words,
incoherent,
to undeserving me?