Moonlight Romantic

I wrote this during a night of mystic moonshine,
with a pale light and a candle guiding my wandering mind.
Did my clichés make me romantic?
A sage constructing my own world of the mythic?
Where the minutes I spend form symbols of an epic,
a tale more than life, in realms beyond the poetic.

Nay, I fear not.
The descending angels of the stars never came.
No spectres greeted me from the candles flame.
I thought of no great thoughts,
and my scribbles I deemed as ink and paper lost.
I felt not uninspired,
but rather condemned to clarity, from which it transpired:
my midnight rite resembled but mere poses,
my epiphanies grew naught but yellow roses.
No Pantheon, no paradise would wish me to stay,
while I ceaselessly strutted and fretted, ranted and raved,
about some chance ten minutes that passed me last May.

By JPV

Copyright January 2006