Flying away to Innisfree

In the days that I have not spoken,
I have felt a laziness clasp my Bones.
I was happy not Being, not Broken,
Not having what some Other owns.
And perhaps I was Happy, or simply Not,
Just not anything for a while, just Me,
I earned the Ire of my domestic Despot,
For not being sold for escaped Irony;
No more the Nightingale of this Bingle bog,
I flew away to an aimless place to please,
My “Melancholy” as they said, like the Frog,
Unaware of the Blues that live in me like Seas,
Of brilliance or of true baritones that bring,
A throttled soul from a free wailing Throat,
Not even knowing why the Blackbirds sing,
They sell for validation what I have wrote.
And yes, perhaps I would love an ovation,
Or a kind word spoken of my lovely Art,
But not so at the cost of Damnation,
Or having to watch all Love depart.
I will go someday to my Isle of Innisfree,
When my dying here is all and done,
There where I shall be born forever free,
I shall fly with wings of laurels that I have won.

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