Buried in blue and yellow,
Beneath fire blankets
And a bold maroon comforter,
One sheet lumped in a corner,
I am just warm enough
To be unselfishly conscious
Even of my own thoughts…

Absent of physical strain,
Tired, I try to focus
While holding my magic pen,
Which carries a precious secret?
But it floats away
Like music once it passed
The secret way
While going out preserved,
Totally undisturbed…

Suddenly, I heard a loud voice
This seemed to remove the distance,
Perhaps, it was my soul,
Speaking to me of worthy things
Or urging my heart to be willing…

Now, I am seeking more
Than hiding behind my weariness,
Looking into the darkest bright,
Seeing riddles hidden in my soul
And questioning at the same time
My broken and stubborn heart,
Why do you still refuse
To reconcile with my eased mind?
No answer precipitates the air
Breathing this weary poet…


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Romeo Della Valle

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-weary-poet/