This Poem Writes Itself

 

Shuttered and rest easy

No light, no dark, no thought

Feel the light and hear breezy

 

Where are we on this morn

Nowhere, not here nor there

Hear a fair and waking horn

 

In my subconscious streams

In my mindless thoughts

Chasing clouds and dreams

 

In distant words and pages

Stories, poems and books

Literary ideas from the ages

 

Birthing ideas slow and unsure

Toddler learning to walk

No ideas yet fully mature

 

Philosophy and theology

Twisted vines of same genius

Limited by this poor biology

 

A poor poet brings nothing home

The work writes itself

If it is to be alive and be a poem

 

A service of love in time

To let the words out on page, and

Bring it together in fortunate rhyme