Thursday, July 25, 2013

Writers write, so
If I do, am I?

I sit myself in boxes
sometimes two or three at a time
I sit and I stare and I do but I dare
not leave my world of rhyme

There is reason in stanzas
each with four lines
There are no shadows
There is no grime

In my metered verse 
of cool rain and shine
there is a lullaby hidden
as the clock keeps time

I sit myself in boxes
sometimes, two or three at a time
I sit and I stare I know not where
Seeking an undeniable sign

In my neutered verse
of plateaus and a white sea
there is nothing sudden
no depths unperceived

There are seasons in my boxes
that don't change with time
They open and I close
Like an interminable mime

I sit myself in boxes
sometimes two or three at a time
I sit and I stare like I really don't care
That I spit stereotypes in every line

A day begins, 
from my boxes I see
The sun goes up, 
I see it and I close

There are no shadows in my boxes
No shadows I can see
For I am blind in my boxes
And things shine wantonly

I sit myself in boxes
sometimes two or three at a time
I sit and I scare of boxes that aren't there
And sell a dozen pairs of wings for a dime

Today begins
from my boxes I rise
I take stock of the number
the colour and the size

No comments: