Sunday, November 3, 2013

Question Poem

I've been writing scraps of poetry since I was a teenager. I have stacks and stacks.  I like to ask hard questions. I like that they don't have answers. Like the great poet Bob Dylan said, "The answer, my friend, is blowing in the wind."

Here's one:

The late night steals up
My mind races here,
Reaches there.

If I were the author
I would not write
My world this way.

Am I a twig
pulled by rushing water?
Have I no choice?

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