Over this I vacillate:
The writing down of verse,
Wealth of language distillate
Quench and cause my thirst.

Easy enough to hesitate
When errands need be run,
Either way I procrastinate
Leaving the other undone.

For quiet I equivocate
Time and time again, for
It is bliss to terminate
The what, the where, the when.

Sometimes I stew in stalemate
Two webs entreat be spun:
Revel in stillness or illustrate,
I pay with time for one.

Rilke said discriminate
If one must write or not,
To breath to write to oscillate
Conundrum of my plot.

Awareness and artistry bifurcate
My will in two extremes,
Yet I know when conjugate
They vivify the means.

Unsure if it is designate
I muse and metaphor,
I know with thrill words compensate
When they begin to roar.

What is the thing that animates
This soul to write a poem,
Passion to note and formulate
Or to be loved at home?