If I should choose to force myself to write
despite the lack of something new to say,
would any notice much change in the way
the words embrace as equals dark and light?
And if compressed into some hackneyed form
to serve as a straight-jacket for the mind,
would any reading these words sense, or find,
a difference from the bloviated norm?
Some writers seek for solidarity
among their own kind; that is not my goal,
to praise my fellow scripters, as a whole.
I’m more concerned with who is reading me.
And further, I would rather know each one
that spends the time, by name, than be so known
to millions, on their lips my words alone,
that they sought out my light, and not their sun.
I choose to force myself to write these feet;
a mere ten minutes action on my part.
And yet, from such small germinations, start
the thoughts that make the universe complete.
11 JUL 2005
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