Rack of Insecurities

Sharp the crack as the iron dog claims another tooth 

on the rack of insecurities.

As the inner critic, a cat of nine 

exposes white bone through fresh flowing red

Words on the page stop dead in their tracks 

He attempts to shape a word in his mind’s eye, 

A meaningless statement to the dyslexic poet

Oh the irony, a fool in a Shakespeareian caste

who stutters and mumbles to the rote of an iambic pentameter

Within his court he dances with a jester’s grace,

A motley truth in riddles slyly cast,

Yet eyes that twinkled bear a haunted trace,

Of wisdom veiled in echoes of the past.

He spoke in haiku, of thought concise

Moonlight on still pond,

laugh hides the weeping willow,

In spirit broken.

He trod lost paths where none would dare to go.

In iambs soft, he murmured fate’s decree,

A puppet prince beneath his rhyming shroud.

Each canton sung, a dirge in minor key,

His rhythms wept while all the court laughed loud.

Though fools may jest, their truths the stars eclipse

As tragedy trembles from their painted lips.

Wayward his path through long past mnemonics

I before E except after C

But pray mercy for the Ancient

Who is either or neither 

In their pursuit of leisure considered weird

For the rules he could bear no truck

To creativity as a slave he was chained

Where the words - his children 

with heart aching vulnerability 

just yearned for the day they would be set free.