A line
lines
is it
are they mine
or fished
from the poetic water
of someone else's pond?
(I would then qualify
as a fake, a liar
or plunderer).

I shouldn't write
if my own lines
I couldn't find-

the poet works
with both the heart
and mind
from the depths
of his own being
like a sculptor
he chisels into
and carves
from stubborn wood
or stone--unperturbed
by what has gone before
nor fearful of future things
to come.  No work of art
worthy of its name could
ever be created
but by devotion
and worship of beauty
could this gift
ever be mine?

Unless and until
I could find
the right lines
I've no right
to write.