• My passions burn so hot and bright
    But they will never last the night
    The tinder catches all too quick
    And shrivel like a broken wick

    Devotion medicates the art
    To which I dedicate my heart
    But I’m a slug of lethargy
    So sad to waste an apple tree

    The verse is halting, rhyme is coarse
    It’s like an aged racing horse
    Who hasn’t seen the track in years
    Who’s dry and stale behind the ears

    The ivory and ebony
    Will whisper of a symphony
    That waits to spill forth from the strings
    But I could never play such things

    The poet hangs, the player rots
    And all the watchers cast their lots
    On who will be the next to bate
    The wick that next will burn and break