Whispers in the back of my mind
Haunting my thoughts throughout the day
Poetic words stabbing my ear
Is it you, Braga, who whispers
So that only I can hear you
Demanding scribbles on the page?
Thousands of years ago, the Norse
Called you the god of poetry
Or are you really an angel
Of the Lord, causing words to form
On the tongues and dark hearts of men
And you were misinterpreted?
You are but one incarnation
Of the poetic flicker
Found within the human spirit
As manifested within me
Braga, you are not my passion,
But rather, my insanity.
