Do Not Go Blind Into That Sunless Blight.

Do not go blind into that sunless blight
where words are woven by madmen who,
say
I’ve dreamt of things you’ll never write.

Sunsets weeping into evening sunrises of
spite,
In sounds of painted lullabies clashing in a
lulled frey.
Do not go blind into that sunless blight.

I’ve breathed in ballets of oleanders dancing in
delight,
While lying in wake, their feet smile as if
to pray,
I’ve dreamt of things you’ll never write.

Grass so subtle it twinkles like dirty spectacles at
night.
The sight of tomatoes and basil falling down a
steep brae,
Do not go blind into that sunless blight.

I’ve tasted harmonious slings and arrows in
flight,
Fading and fading like a poem echoes on the
moon’s bay.
I’ve dreamt of things you’ll never write.

The pang of timely hands scratching like a
wight,
In twinkles of raindrops cascading into an,
old day,
Do not go blind into that sunless blight

Where the poet’s letters are set daily
alight,
In silent songs of a never-painful loss,
so,
Do not go blind into that sunless blight,
I’ve dreamt of things you’ll never write.