PARTLY CLOUDY

am, for the most part,

off my dead center,

usually five to ten degrees

separation, left to right;

having little overall effect

on today's price of mischief,

and these zero degrees with

accompanied frigid

north winds with snow. 

fortunately, there is no jail

for burnt out old poets,

much like the one writing this.

were there such a jail,

would certainly be doing life

without possibility of parole

until dead, or process of dying. 

at least knowing there will be

no more poems from this 

long time  word slayer of 

prime verse posing.

throw myself upon mercy

of the courts, knowing

full-well there be no mercy

for this shameless old poet. 

stumble, just once, and history
marks us down as a clutch.,
with a nagging suspicion
dark thoughts forming.

words are mine, said the book,
as the book lay on the table,
preparing to be read,
as all books should.

have been cursed, coerced, 
flushed and punished.
yet, through it all, remain relaxed
while faith and fate prepare
finishing what no other could
ever hope to accomplish.