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life

a poet in the dark searches for the light reaches for something to write grasping a pen running out of ink to one it is the same as time to jot down present pulp of mind manuvers thru rhythms and rhymes in frantic extasy trying to find a sharp pointed arrow to gun down the sparrow listening at the window only rage can breakthrough to the other side to reach a climax yet there has been no foreplay on the same hill as Jack and Jill the poet mutters through all the pieces of glass amid clutter mind sunken deep in the gutter suddenly laid hands upon the right tool to toil a tall tale of elixirs of intoxicating drunken fornicating home brewed folklore plucked from recycle bins racing to erase sin to replace zen the sound of a voice never heard meanwhile the town Griot's leer and jeer at the arogant intense intentual intent to rewrite that in which has been written it's utterly unspoken to liedown with what has already been spoken for