there is a poem lurking
in me tonight,
accompanying me from nighttime
into the muddled currents of the wee hours,
awaiting for an ending
of this, this vigil,
or perhaps,
ejection from the birth canal
where and whence, it irritangly demands, is
my commencement,
the origination of its peculiar species,
to eternalize it,
tattoo a unique number
upon its wrist
in a ledger of words
they sent me a message that the
DedPoet is in deed
dead, gone, cremated
but that is not the poem
stalking me
right now
for now
vanilla numbing of the heart,
sadness that this fellow runner
of my human-writing race
is no more upon the track
but that is not the poem
talking to me
right now
every flutter of eyelash
is a line,
a forgotten fragmented verse,
a lost and gone forever Clementine,
even before the thought completed
numerous sun ray titles flash
but few are caught,
though all glimpsed in dazzled shining glory
the hook, line and sinker,
themselves, yeoman poets all,
have nothing to show
oh woe is me,
oh woe is me
there is a poem lurking
in my chest
yearning to be free
by being created
I know it not yet
in any form recognizable,
so well as it knows me
from our shared womb,
now torn
5:08 am
Sept. 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 5:22 AM UTC
there is a poem lurking
in me tonight,
accompanying me from nighttime
into the muddled currents of the wee hours,
awaiting for an ending
of this, this vigil,
or perhaps,
ejection from the birth canal
where and whence, it irritangly demands, is
my commencement,
the origination of its peculiar species,
to eternalize it,
tattoo a unique number
upon its wrist
in a ledger of words
they sent me a message that the
DedPoet is in deed
dead, gone, cremated
but that is not the poem
stalking me
right now
for now
vanilla numbing of the heart,
sadness that this fellow runner
of my human-writing race
is no more upon the track
but that is not the poem
talking to me
right now
every flutter of eyelash
is a line,
a forgotten fragmented verse,
a lost and gone forever Clementine,
even before the thought completed
numerous sun ray titles flash
but few are caught,
though all glimpsed in dazzled shining glory
the hook, line and sinker,
themselves, yeoman poets all,
have nothing to show
oh woe is me,
oh woe is me
there is a poem lurking
in my chest
yearning to be free
by being created
I know it not yet
in any form recognizable,
so well as it knows me
from our shared womb,
now torn
5:08 am
Sept. 30, 2015
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