If there is method in this madness
by which I compose,
there ought to be at least one moment
when that sense is shown.
That’s not the case; when words
come out, they oft betray
no common ground with sanity,
but are a madman’s play.
Perhaps that is the goal:
to purge with flowing pen
the ink-stained fingers of the soul
so they can write again.
It seems unlikely though, I fear,
for these words rarely seem to cease;
were their intent to cleanse and clear,
at some point I’d expect decrease.
But still they come, just as they please,
in different forms and varied measures,
as hurricanes or gentle breezes,
half-cast clods of clay, or treasures.
10 APR 2004
by stanza: common measure, short measure, short hymnal measure, long measure, long hymnal measure