In me there are volumes
upon infinite volumes of poetry
written in calligraphy on
handmade linen parchment in
a dark corner of my brain

crumpled ***** of paper
clog my arteries
words and symbols
seeping out my pores

a deluge of rhyme
a ***** of verse
a million billion zillion
ridiculous lines of litany

my time belongs not to me
but to a strange epiphany
not good, not bad, it is what is
each poem is my purpose