A Writer’s Right
Escape me now
Oh, wretched pen
Don’t lure my hand to wander
Too often times
Your inkened soul
Starts my mind to ponder
If left to you
My tears would roll
To stain my heart ‘believer’
Because of you
I dream of lies
Reality—is fleeting
It’s just no use
I know it’s said
A fool keeps right on dreaming
I write fine lines
So well disguised
There’s nothing for the keeping
Romantic fires,
A blanket’s warmth
These things belong to my pen
Chilled Rose’ wine
And whispered lies
I wonder who will read them
Through words on page
Our lovers rage
So clear in their deception
It’s not mere ink
(As you may think)
How dare I say—a passion!
Jude Stringfellow
circa 1980
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