To Byron

To Byron
By Tatiana Pahlen

When stuck on Byron's urging lines
to struggle ending heartfelt torture
between the ironies in rhymes
a burst of tears is beyond my conscience.
The chills on the spine, but not from drafts
all windows fixed and tightly shut.
The winters breathe beneath the heat
of callous tubes to warm my feet.
Lord Byron won't survive this frame
that petty space to spur a scribe,
where so insane or rather vain
I failed to spell a bold word, bribe.
A blurry past at times remains
the scattered segments of vanished fame;
now scatters only rain
my arduous dwelling's not the same.
The moistened eyes enraged by words,
the page possessed by avid pupils.
I am partial to my pithy Lord,
The flamboyant – George Gordon!