THOUGHTS
Thoughts are like vultures
that fly high,
and feed on bits of hours gone
by.
They screech and scream in my
silent mood,
And shake the elements of
manhood.
They hover in circles around
my head,
And smell parts of me long
dead.
They grow in number and in
sound,
And quickly fill the space
around,
And dim the glaze of my
vocation,
That spurs me on and feeds my
passion.
So rest they must as they
indeed,
Are a poet’s greed but
labour’s disease.