Autobiography of a poet For the un-fiend-ly friends

He is lonely ,
he works along the lee shores
 , with slow lids and
Ashen pupils,
Turgid blood,
Sordid feet,
Numb brain,
Reminiscing over
his would be stay in the tomb.
cliffs of problem
made their way
out of his skin , inured to
Sorrow and
solitude intertwined
In a terrain parallel to bliss.
A sage said he should be
a poet writing
His Autobiography,

But I said no,

A poet said he is not a poet,
 a poem versified
 towards the onset of infinity's end,
An opera of ingenuity in
 folds exiled in the
land that time
 forgot,
A land where the cuteness of
 tentacles romances
the deadliness of
jellyfishes and
 the reef's white
And black tyrants ,
too cute
to slay one but
half a trillion.


From wolverines
to loons
to wildflowers
to thrushes
To ferns
to the coastal halos

To

The deceitful look of
The white
Caspian Tern

I think this is the onset of autobiography of a poem,
Autobiography of a poet.

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