Pas de choix, no choice,
On the Internet,
you surf waves of poetry,
Every breathe,
Every second of every-sight seen,
Filtered into a poem,
Words are your saliva,
Passion the glue,
And the poem your write
Is your finger extending heavenward
Like Adam's at the Sistine Chapel,
(http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/7/73/God2-Sistine_Chapel.png)
Saying gaze upon OUR creation.