Becoming Verse
Stillborn Was the verse pronounced Upon its emergence From a womb which had despaired . Death begets Death My steel is impaired . And how Shall I weave life into it When my mind ' s needles Are dull ? Drooling after the words Of those who have them on their fingertips And sighing at my own bony brood , I find beauty nowhere but in Another soul ' s enigma , Gushed onto those halls , What tales tell they ,
A paradise of walls Twisted with the torque of their talent ? Black
Yet what is poetry
Splashed with white Verdana .
But words
I don ’ t understand half of it . Arranged to itch the soul ? The way the words waltz In sans-serif silken gowns Now beginning from the lips , Rending yonder glottal hips Then pause and Slowly twitch their manifold limbs As if praying for comprehension Is enough . And slowly but surely I try the same . There is no substance to me But the haunting moans of what has come and gone . What can I do when I take up the pen Or take to these keys But become the verse ?
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