Thus Far

Reach for the doctrine I am;
Oh, scholars so trivial
With witless prosodies of thine
Thou wield mimic desolation
Never semantic pain...

Thus far
Do I pine for thee?

Like melting of snow
So sure yet so slow
Is the poets´ craft
Thus done

All the sorrows, my silent syllables
Who intempereth with life
Shall drunk with emotion of
Stentorian choir, orchestra of fall
That I recite with awe
But lo, no word can grasp
That spark

Thus far
Do I pine for me?
Bereave over a gift
That´s forced, not given

Like melting of snow
So sure yet so slow
Is the poets´ craft
Adored?