Ryan Gregory Floyd

The writer writes to fight the sleep
That in his soul would dwell,
The dreamless sleep, the darkness deep
That makes his life a hell,
For in the Word and cunning phrase
A crackling light or flame
To melt the ice and stiff malaise
That otherwise would maim.
The writer and his darkness deep
As stark as night and day,
But each to each, to laugh or weep,
In marriage bound to stay.
He cuts the rope that round his throat
Would surely end his life
With words like gleaming steel, precise
And forged to icy point.

The knee-deep winter mire,
The death to hopeful fire,
Is waged in holy warfare
With the summer's sweet attire.

The battle's waged, the mind will flame,
And poetry's the daughter.
The battle done, the sun will set
But on will live the fire.
As grapes compressed and left to rest
Will gain a joyful flavor,
So time's delay and sunshine's crest
Will leave the wine to savor.

— Credo Ut Intelligam
(I believe that I may understand)
By Ryan Gregory Floyd, age 21