b’’h
10/13/11

To write is not to scribble but engrave.
Unwholesome words remain as do so gems.
The poet knows this well ere he begins:
Would then so to consider rather save?

What message bring he to his paper slave?
What music make he sing his violins?
What picture paint he when the daylight dims
Until the morning light break such he crave...?

His word does not the poet often keep.
He’d rather be it broadcast to the world
Before ‘tis ripe — an apple yet quite green...

And so do I for want of selfish sleep —
And so do I regardless stone-fruit hurled —
That — even tho’ inscription have not seen.




_______________
FlintHunter (2011)