Messages from My Soul

The Chronicler

THE CHRONICLER

Here am I, the unknowing chronicler

Poet, raconteur of stories I don't know.

I look into distant rooms, peering in

To its woe and sin, and thereof write within;

The plume I move, the words are Sphinx

That barely rattle the chains of a thousand links.

Tales of which I know not, almost fiction,

Or so this humble thinking thinks.

All philosophy, theory of schism and friction!

Whorish atoms of thought adulterated by ink;

I know not its story, but still I tell

Depending upon Mind's whimsy to speculate,

Shards of blinding darkness! I contemplate

What caprice's of Heaven, what dream is of Hell,

I know naught! Yet I write, I write,

Under emotion's spell, 'neath its treach'rous light.

I write, in the frenzy of spite of unknown men,

Unknown days and unknown things, to see them break again

From the faded voice of their chronicler, just as unknown.