A Middling Poet

A Middling poet...
He thought it of himself.
Most everyone agreed.
He wrote for a small circle
and was happy with his lot.

But then, with his first --
and his last --
long poem
his  prospect changed.
He saw at once --
no missing it! --
he'd sired a masterpiece.

What should he do?
Attempt to publish it?
Cold, uncomprehanding eyes
might rubbish it...
He kept it to himself,
sharing it with no one.
Not a soul.
Not family or friend.

He gave up other reading,
lived inside its pages
began to read it constantly,
and tweak it as he read.
A word, a dot, a comma changed;
but nothing changed 
as much as he.
Each cadence savoured...
and then savoured once again!

He had no time for eating  now.
Washing, sleep, T.V. and radio,
all things of yesteryear.
And then one day
a new obsession struck:
verbose, not dense enough,
needs paring down.
He'd make it lean and hungry like.
And this he did.

They found him 
and the manuscript
like double suicides,
together on the bed.
The two pared down
beyond the point
at which life might survive.