I wish these words could take me to the stars
And chase away the emptiness inside;
I’m all fluorescent lights and grids and bars,
A warehouse, fully lit, unoccupied —

I wish that poetry was rocket fuel,
And I, a rocket ship that ready stood:
So much of space, unknown to any school,
That I would love to see now, if I could —

I do not want to feel this hollowness;
For I am blinded by the vacant space
That fills up all I am with blank distress,
And leaves me yearning, standing here in place —

Near Rigel or Antares I should be:
Except this desuetude is really me

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Beleaguered Servant

Owen Servant is an online poet working in a style that's been described as "compulsive". In real life, he is an actuary, because being a poet wasn't unpopular enough.

One thought on “Desuetude”

  1. “for now we know in part”
    And the only way to be is here and now. So consider; you have been read today and caused me, for one, to once again to pick up Websters ( if i could take only one book with me to the stars and outer space it would be Websters unabridged dictionary) and to smile at the richness of our lives.
    Angel in the dust

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