My poems are signed anonymous,
For anonymous they are,
From somewhere they come,
Sometimes.

Who makes them?
What time?
Which place?
In what climes?
I think not I fathom it all.

I know it as true,
That there are those two
In presence of who
They come.

Catalysts of creation
Are pain and separation,
In them alone do I trust.
So, pain and separation:
Catalysts of creation,
Keep them alive I must.

Drop after drop
Of pain let drip and stain,
The sheets of life.
Drop after red drop,
From raw lacerations,
Drain and drip
From wounds of separation,
And word by word
Congeal on sheets.

Let poems come,
At least sometimes.