The poet

Bewailing the want and curtailing the pain,

I sat, all alone, in the cold driving rain.

Surrounded by sorrow and frozen by fear,

I looked for more cliches but none would appear.

I saw, in the distance, the end of the line,

If only I make it I’ll end with a rhyme.

But I didn’t make it. I never drew near.

This poem’s too hard so I’ll just disappear.