it began as many things do
with a sharp intake of breath
possibility fluttering about
and the silent, irrational utterance
of cynical language
it began as a notion dodging
through an inner space
packed full of wasted remnants
fickle mysticism, ten o’clock news
and useless constraint
it began with no precise need
for a compass, or a map
for the odometer’s calculated speed
or a thermometer’s
measured heat
it simply began
because every good story
wishes its quintessence
and every action
must be set into motion
I've had written thoughts that went in the same I think the meaning of this poem goes...
ReplyDeleteIs it merely because I am reading through the glasses of my experience? Don't know...
Be that as it may, I feel empathy when I read this.
I suspect most people who have tried writing of one kind or another would...
Alesa, I never received notification of most of your comments and am just reading this now, almost two years later!
ReplyDeleteYes, empathy...
I always remember precisely what I was feeling and why at the time I write a poem.