Where do the thousands of
Un-penned poems live now that
They've deserted me?
We used to be neighbors,
Lovers, comrades in arms.
They would follow me
Crawling after, trailing along --
Shadowy at first, and then
Gaining form, depth, and speed --
Come rushing towards me,
My loyal dogs
Ever so excited in greeting.
Until I could no longer distinguish them
From the sweat on my skin, could not
Even breathe without feeling their pulse
The bass line low and
Humming along -- steady vibrations
Creating simple, sweet melodies.
I would hear them with
The slightest rustling of leaves.
The cracks in dirty, gnarled sidewalks
Caverns which opened up
Poured forth streams of worded
Imagery merely awaiting the vessel
Who might translate them in to an arrangement.
The compositions, however, seem to exist
Before there was ever a human being called "me".
I have no right to claim them or
Attempt to control them.
I must remember to thank the Muse,
For this valuable lesson learned:
Poems are a species that must remain
UNLEASHED.
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