My tone be measured more
than letters I've written,
and words be gone countless
no bones have bitten,
yet definition's one
big certain question;
not even mind of mine
did profess un-intention;
since everything's my own
my story's penmanship,
my aged pages,
my tainted centerfold
where I built my stages;
no actors but myself
have acted dangerous,
that scenes be questioned for
their story-stealing purpose;
for purpose, for nothing --
what poetry is stolen
whose free verse existence
did sprawl not their mindin'
why question what's answered
this poet's un-brothered
whose solitude expands
not touching those others'
nor secretly desire
be prideful nor humble
for never art's dependent
where powers could stumble
'till forever's not enough
for the poet to handle
blood-written his old elegy
as he dims his own candle.
