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.