Poem 350 – The Poet and the Lark

The brain rots, the mind dies,
The exalting spirit must fall,
No matter how hight the inspired lark climbs
Like us, it tires of the All.
So it descends from lofty peaks of joy,
And the spires of subliminity,
To rest amid the mundane world,
And plan its next trip to ecstasy.


Dear readers,

As I wrote this, I had just finished several hours of solid writing, and was knackered. I imagine some of you can understand the feeling.

Kind regards,

The Hapless Neo-Romantic

Tell us what you thought, or if to you these words are naught.

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