Sometimes I sit in light
And stare at the white.
Stabbing into the blue and black
Sometimes red
Sometimes purple
Not knowing what to write
But still knowing the feeling
Is the hardest thing to put right
When hidden messages bubble away
And lurks in caves and corners too distant to say
I dislike the game
I dislike the play
I dislike the victory of Idea all the way
As it goes I will still have less to say
In one year two year or three or even four
Wrote words of fancy
In muffled grey noise
Try to coax out shapeless love
And fold out furrowed landscape
Pin down stupid symbol
Wheel out old metaphor
Use rhyme all the time
And never fall in front of the stubborn old law
It's a problem with the structure
Its in the letters of old
How can a meaning become new
Or a message so bold
It can't be original
Nothing ever is
But perspective lives on
In its own dreary fizz
Over and over
The battle never ends
Between pen and paper
Between young and old
Between idea and nation
The paper always the victim
never the winner
nor the muse or even the killer
Language indeed is the oldest sinner.