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Poetry in the air with eyes of a hawk,
With telephoto lenses
And metaphoric wings,
And me in their sights,
My contented self,
Alone in my shallow dreams,
In my world of black and white,
My life categorized in ledger books,
With my feet rooted deep in the earth.
Poetry came to me from a river
Without a name or a residence,
Bending around nebulous corners,
Penetrating my being with eager sonnets,
Touching my heart with tender fingers,
With nocturnal verses at my bedside,
Entering my dreams with piercing voices,
Rousing me from my sleep,
Dragging me from my contented life
Into an overly sensitized world
Of perfection of the highest order,
The loneliness of the nonconformist,
The outsider with an inside yearning
With memories of flowing with the current,
Here I am living in the abstract,
Soaring with the winds of passion,
From words casting me out into space,
A genius trying to find his way,
A rag doll at the hands of poetic talk,
Under the influence of a mystic potion,
Alienating me from all things real,
Transforming sticks into
Diamond studded scepters,
Making up stories with no beginnings,
Laughing at structure
And abolishing endings,
As I go on and on and on out there.
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