A POET NO MORE

While I write under a midnight lamp,
it seems good.
Not so good.
It seems vile.

I stop to make a correction.
I cut out.
I put in.
I tear up.

My eyes blaze with imagination.
In ecstasy.
In agony.
In despair.

I've worn out with frustration
My sleepless hours.
My good nights.
My bad mornings.

My book I saw every moment.
Now before me.
Now vanishing.
Now not there.

I acted my people's parts
As I ate.
As I slept.
As I lived.

With my head hung miles I walked.
Now crying
Now laughing.
Now I'm not.

I always preferred this style or that.
Now the heroic.
Or the pompous.
Or the plain.

For years I wrote and I know not if I am
The divinest genius.
The greatest fool.
A poet no more...