Come here, have I, to bear my being.
Know you not what thou art seeing?

I take a little bit of me,
and craft it into poetry.

A soul rests on thy tongue's tip.
Will-o'-Wisps pour o're a poet's lips.

Take in ear mine lingual clay,
be crafted by the things I say.

My being is borne out here where I came,
but in the coming something, someone changed.