Baronhawk's Nest

What am I
upon this stage
what is my role
in the poetic niche

am I an engineer
of words upon words
workman like
of stones upon brick

are my words
put upon
constructed
to contain

a monument
to my pride
my egoistical
self esteem

am I a product
of my mind
build upon
my vocabulary's boon

stripped down
to the core
nothing more
a facade of cocoons

or am I an artist born
who stalks the earth
with artful strides
poetically shorn

spewing words
born of storm
passionate bursts
of soulful prose

meaning all
that was said
and behind those
are other traits

silver tounged
and golden lips
torrents of bountiful
deep deep quips

and the wit
oh what wit
the sharpest tool
in the kit

or perhaps a philosopher
born to brood
of scornful whimpers
and dark dark moods

with a mind
that would'nt quit
nary a time
thinking deep

every essence
to be questioned
every thought
to be challenged

likely old
before due time
flooded by cares
that wrinkles skin

but worst
from all the rest
this giddiness
and restless stress

and lastly perhaps
a lost lost soul
searching through cracks
for a meaning to attach

lost in the meadows
of bitter grasses
struggling in the muddy
mires of regrets

crying out in sorrow
and in angry shouts
craving for a morsel
of faith and fate

trapped in a place
with no way out
the only course
is to rave and shout

the lonely lonely mutterings
of a wandering soul
the sad sad sputterings of
a torch running out.