so, tonight, I have all my words out,
splayed out in wondrous array
on the table before me.
Wonder is my taste, my horizon,
I sit in awe.
So many to choose from. The universe of
combinations; it gets too much.
I look at the words in their glorious
celebrations just waiting, and I don't
plan to pick favorites.
I want to use each one effectively, fairly.
Words have feelings.
Can one be jealous of another, or harbor
ill, if disuse becomes her stable.
I want to throw darts, use a random generator.
Relieve myself of the awesome godlike responsibility.
There it  is.
Poetry is my world. I am God here in
stresses and syllables, in forms in choicing.
I set the boundaries and  ethics, the thematics the
rules.
I used to question God.
An apple?  A snake?
Now I have empathy.