Poems Tributes | To Lord Byron

To Lord 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 beyond my conscience.
The chills on spine, but not from drafts,
the 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 futile 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 fond of my pithy Lord,
The flamboyant George Gordon!