What is a poem? What is a tale?
From what source these strange things hail?
Crafted of course, from Hands not mine,
Formed from parchment - Dot and Line.
Hands not mine, Words not own,
Soul in self, Thoughts once sown;
Like Rock and Leaf, each holds a song
passed through time from Ages long,
A pen-tip dances upon my life
Its end my handle, its tip my knife-
Words to carve, soul to grind,
Wounds to drain, Words not mine;
Someday the river, like parchment, dries;
Red-water stain, Bottle of Lies.
Perhaps a poem is like the sea,
Roaring yet calm, a reflection-