while this left handed wind
scribbles in my head
the chatter it has with the cold marble
a hard mute sound that i cannot comprehend
i gather myself with one hand and delve into this beast
with a rabid twist of the inked hand
but even as the words fall one by one
to the page forming  its neat teeth
the capture device falters and the poem shatters
like a frail mind
its remainders are a mad little creature
not some graceful dove
and this mad little creature cavorts across
both mind and page with a trail of blood and pain
with a trail of closing doors
and silent accusations in eyes only imagined
this mad little creature now vaults
to the aperture between you and I
screams out to the listening world
not i...do you hear me...not i
the child of dawn isn't the wanderer of night
captivated by the moons silent slide in cosmic wheel
the dew eyed stranger at dawn is a manufacture of thought
not i
not i