Pity the Poet
All I have are words and wit
To ply my trade.
A painter toils with canvas and colour,
The sculptor has chisel and hammer,
A musician has instrument and voice,
And all I have are words.
Just words.
I must make each one work
In harmony with its neighbour
And wring from each one
Every ounce of meaning
Or twist that meaning to face
The direction I desire.
A sad epitaph to mark my stone,
“All He Had Was Words”.