By J. A. Weymouth
There is a lonely man who ponders still
That crazy hoax that is beyond, near all
Of contemplation and sour thrill
The experience of many: the advanced scrawl.
The energy draws back in uneasy steps
Trailing inwards and coiling your insides
Quickening with horrid, trepid missteps
The look received fools and divides.
It is the poet who sees those naked eyes
Wandering over many matching reflections
Their quiet tastes of the idea standing by
Of all that fails those contemplative questions.
Who is the poet? Is that the man or the deer?
That doe-eyed look of words that do come forth
Sprung up beneath or beyond that higher seer
Come from unwavering lengths of tender thought.
It is like this equivalence, this treasured creativity
That is beyond all of me and my soul
These words are not mine, simply pure proclivity
From an un-tranquil mind in need to become whole.