A poem

So many hours
wiled away in waste,
mired in mediocrity
stupor stalled
I stagger slowly on,
Times passage
stills the writers hand
ink dries in the well
while the world
wends winds
leaving the poetry behind,
is it courage
that I find lacking
longing for my saviour
her beatific face
shining with such fierce love,
in the waiting
so many hours frittered
away,
promise pilfered
times thief taken toll
is it courage
lacking, in so many hours.

C26