Might might

If the war between such faith and not has nothing left to give,

I haven’t won. I’ve given in, and somewhere there within, 

trace existences clamor - such babes need feed. You see

the devil couldn’t touch me, but this bastard Time’s the death of me.

But every inky scrabble’s just a passing of what’s gone -  

“The moment can’t live on”, and so I’ll leave myself this song.

I’m just trying to make sense of it, and you don’t have to sing along.

But you can and will, or write your own, some with canvas, or films, or poems

detailing love or joy or details - waves crests, milky moonlight,

but what good is beauty’s portrayal if doesn’t get the parts right?

Every word’s a moment, but not every moment a word,

if we finally understand this, we’ll finally shrink the entertainment herd.

See, art’s not made for money. art is art, so if you agree,

forget the fame or fortune. We remember the best posthumously

if at all, so find a day job, right? Just most of all, forget the hype.

Writers write, and the pen’s might might save you from yourself and them. Alright?