Mr. Eliot

Why, Mr. Eliot,
Does my hand fail me when I write without meter?
It trembles like a distant hurricane
Close to shore.
Why am I inspired by rain beating upon my roof
By birds eclipsing the sun so gracefully
By love unfulfilled?
Take a portrait with me, sir.
You are long gone,
Dead years before I had seen lavender skies.
I am gone too
With each line I dedicate to your legacy
Creativity is invoked by many things,
But should the past be one?
Non-verbal seance,
The only sound is the candle's flicker,
My scratches at paper.
Each line I write makes me sicker.

The women, Mr. Eliot,
Why, the women come and go.
Boats rock to and fro
Drinking four glasses of chardonnay
Ruffle, rest, and call it a day.

Beg and plead to build a shrine.
I have no talent
I refuse to behold tradition.
For, Mr. Eliot, you refuse to listen.
Please be witness to the light above my head.
Spotlights in the blackened sky.

-She twists the rose in her naked hands.
We spread heavily across barren lands.
Angels swirl lightly over islands with lovely disposition.

I fall backwards
Hoping for someone to be there to save me.
Eyes above spy down upon us.
Wonder who I am.
Where I am going.
You cannot care why,
As streaks near the moon reverberate
While I try to envision what is not here.