033 - February 2 2024 - dark dogs

I came out from my sickness with a new sense
purity of mind and resolve of the heart
that for time I’d wasted I’d make recompense
by promising all I had left to my art

whatever dalliances, tawdry, held me
let them now rot; I consign them to the scrap
I live for the pen, and language’s fancy:
O! the breath of the muse is all I can ask

I lost much to illness, and my time is short
dark dogs ring the low flame burning at my desk
from the shadows their eyes watch, lucid as quartz
for the moment I waiver, and dream of rest