A tyrant’s spell makes ruin seem like fate

Writing poems is easy,in the end
For they exist already in the tongue.
We  remove excess, and inappropriate,  mend.
Hence what is left cannot be written wrong.

The longer and more complex is the poem
The easier for the poet to  sculpt to shape
But brief and succinct verses  hide, or roam.
Empty is my paper and I  mope.

Or are words  a  mere random heap  of stones
A poet ,  a builder of a drystone wall?
Skeleton,  or heap of  beggars’ bones
Awaiting  flesh , for which desire they call?

Maybe a hidden body in the woods,
A hand protrudes and dogs run all a-bark
Lazarus waiting  for  his unique   God
Who alone  provides the  living spark

Frankenstein or Saviour, who can tell?
Construction  may obscure  and then  too late;
Both  good and evil can  be written well.
A tyrant’s spell  makes ruin   seem like fate