There was a little poem
who lived in the Land of Language.
He went about his daily deeds and duties,
somewhat similar to yours and mine
as makers of our days and ways,
in pursuit of a perfect pleasure craft.
The little poem moved along,
one step at a time,
like you and I,
but on legs of eight,
which Occidentally caught the light,
sometimes,
like lines
(except not an octet).
He worked alone and in the dark,
the little poems eyes adjusted and accustomed
this way, preferring this process,
hiding himself during the day when others are out and about
and get in his way, breaking the connections-
concentration of the grand design in his mind.
Relentless still,
the little poem weaved his words all night,
starting over, adding on, redesigning
his cozy mental matrix
made for suicide moths drawn to
the light.
Blinded with sight,
blocking out the newest sign
a reinvented lyric, a trap in translation.
Lost in Confusion,
stalled and flailing-
signals are sent, along these lines,
the little poem reads the notes,
gathers and wraps more than needed
the little poem stashes his words
for other webs to weave
spinning their marrow
for a tomorrow
he never saw.
Image By: Luc Viatour [GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html), CC-BY-SA-3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/) or CC BY-SA 2.5-2.0-1.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.5-2.0-1.0)], via Wikimedia Commons.
