This is why I like to write:
These perfect forms of black on white,
As they rollick atop as if on air
On clouds of paper, free and fair.
I test the waters with something true
Like robin’s-egg blue,
Or ocean surf,
Or anything I can name
From my own home turf.
From my own home turf.
My words venture forth in a stumble,
While I seek the speech of my self’s own mumble.
I greet the night as I greet the day,
With words shaped from thoughts like clay.
Letters spill forth, as I type to keep pace
With inner visions seeking outer space.
Just black symbols formed amid white gaps —
Nothing is final and nothing lasts.
