the flimsy poem is the life half lived

The flimsy poem is a life half lived
And that may be due to this
The life lived through the other eyes
A life left to only its imagination
Gazing out the windows
Of an active procrastination

The tired hand wields weakly
A tired pen upon worn pages
The futile words of others tales
A short poem from a tired imagination
Frail ink upon loose leafs
Brings forth no culmination

Have I written such a poem?
A poem of no significance?
Have I failed to tell my tale?
Used more than my imagination?
To tell of something true
To describe my fascination?

Now I tell my tale
Of something that lingers
Not in the dark of course
But beyond my imagination
To a place where the raven tells
My soul’s story of emancipation.

Into the desert high up
sitting is a sandstone cliff
dwelling is the breath of echos
My soul ties me to imagination
As I wonder about this thing
This place of great creation.

It lingers still
This thought of my venture
Upon fresh sheets of white
Traversing my imagination
Through hand to pen
thought’s purposeful articulation