It’s hard to write
from here.
And it’s hard to read
from here.
I spend half my life
up here,
but the Gates are far
from here.
Mortal hours
are spent
paying Virtue’s
rent
until the night
is spent,
until the mind
is bent.
As the words
yet flow,
the rift between
does grow
’til I’m
Mercutio;
a fool ‘tween high
and low.
It’s hard to write
from here,
hard to read
from here,
and it’s all that I
can bear
‘fore my life is laid
down bare.

© Blake Leitch February 4, 2019