A man sits still. Deep and long of ponder.
Epiphany!

Grasped.
A long, wispy feather.
Dipped in a pool of ink.
Its veiny hollow filled by liquid draw.

The plume's stalky rootlet.
Is set firm upon a foolscape.
Trawled heavy across the lay.
Spurs a silken slipstream of inelastic indigo.

Sharp. Esteemed.
Bent tipped quill.
Ink aflow.
Records forever.
His thoughts and dreams.
Fears and subtleties.

Words expressed in ink.
For all to see.
Words.
What do they really mean?

Words of a popular song.
Vague and drawl.
Words penned for the general view.
Mean absolutely nothing at all.

However
Words that dare to affect another.
The most intensely personal words ever tendered.
Words mined from the deepest canyons of thought.
Words not written of one another.
But words written of oneself.
These are the words most meaningful to me.

Words that define the mortal poet.
Words that form the evil poem.
Words that swirl subversively poetic.

Correct me if I'm wrong.
I'd rather know a passionate poem.
Than sing a popular song.