A Poet's fate, I sadly find
is seldom praise, or reviews kind,
yet I persist, by fate inclined
to leave a trail of words behind.

Each night time thought that begs me write
must face the glare of bright sun light.
In rhyme, beliefs must shine contrite
like dogs that bark before they bite.

When comes the day, I must atone
for all the words I've flippant sown,
stand meek before my maker's throne,
I'll find one place, my writing's known.

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