Why Did I Not Write
Why did I not write—day by day,
at the beginning?
Monotonous uneventful words, written
as it happened, would have made an interesting tale.
Pages no one else could write from memory.
During my endless tomorrows,
I scuttled my talent, my craft.
My passions abused and consumed,
time slipped through my fingers
by entertainments. Detours
against beginners eager to feast on fame.
Now here at my desk I sit
near the River Styx.