The Poem
The poem rests inside my head,
Like carvings set in stone.
And all I have to do is cut away,
The words that aren’t my own.
Every singing bit of rhyme,
Is like a memory.
So all I have to do is shed,
The parts that aren’t me.
One thing I often wonder,
As I chop the chips away,
How much of me is taken with,
The message I convey.
With all the mass of messages,
The scriptings that I’ve cleft,
When I set out the last of them,
Will anything be left?
NicknamedBob . . . April 6, 2004