I've forgotten about one of my other hobbies: creative writing.
It had been a while since I had written anything new, so I decided (in my state of insomnia yesternight and tonight) to see if I still could write a poem.
While I may not be a master poet, I am rather pleased and do quite enjoy what I came up with; I feel it's one of my most intricate poems to date.
And while I write for myself, I do know of at least one poetry aficionado who may read this post and who may also enjoy what I've written, so I'll play the cliché blogger and post my poem here:
Tempest shod, he mourns the ice
Wherewith the gritted frost
Took his life through rotten means,
Cold and spoiled by torrent’s blood,
Bashed and pried by peeling thoughts.
As limpid breaths on brittle panes
His name is spelled as shot
Morose of baptized red-ing white
Such bought with frozen wings, his plight
To forever wrest on puddled knees.