when, requisite pains reside
in the heart of the poet.
awaiting release by the gaoloring, racontuer or racontuese reclining, scornfully, within.

it is then, it happens so,
upon the granting of  the id's manumission.
memories, maudlin or immeritous
are rescinded from the bitter, saltfaced mine,
of personal history..

when such are finally granted jubilation,
given proprietary parole,
on, the nib of a pen.

they then, take time,
as of now,
as in the present tense,
to, relieve themselves, copiously, onto to paper....
leaving only an inkstained
jumble of letters,
for you,(those left to toil)
to decipher, as you may.

before on the run for freedom's wind
they go....
like..... lemmings off a cliff.