WAITING LIST

for a life like Poe
  and Baudelaire
    every love relapses
  only poetry expects
you to survive by a hair,

here a sky departing
  in rain
you both collapse
in your quatrain
   as birds in the air,

at your vocation
   you have been
on islands of isolation
it's time for no more

for hands up of desolation
 clothe your destiny
 as to gird for war,

 in every location
even in a life created
only for suffering,

    others have time
 for partying
     for outsmarting
 the city lawyer
 any local doctor
   a vocal Tom Sawyer
  every adventurer
 or donor yet like David
not yet a  poet-king
yet ready with a sling
to slay his enemies,
it's your hour to say
   a bon voyage,

 even when making a boner
 in secret or regret
 for being a loner,


poets regret the past


yet you cannot decide
from  this hour
to get up
from your poor flower's bed

or in surounded cupola
where the birds are
or in the water's splendor
 of your starry sunset

know your words will outlast
as paroles of
   what is beautiful in the past
      from all what has been nursed
even profoundly immersed
taken in your pride
 
when cursed or damned
you strive to be loving

 as immortality.