Things will not come to me
as they will come to you
as through a door
opened to let in the morning light
Poised and calm, you
like a clean tablet, take first
impressions
every time.
Then outflow it in matter for the soul
or the mind.
In that white light of reason that
bathes you
I will stand blase and unclean
My amorphous mass
will absorb, and gain mass, infinitely.
To will, I will shuffle
a striving and a planning
of my thoughts and ideas
which way they course.
I will, and will not
seek words, and pare and add
this way and that
to create the perfect discourse.
When it comes, it comes
like blood spilled
from subterranean veins
that had long contained it.
