It seems appealing that we write for fun
whatever comes to mind--
the masturbated life of a virgin nun,
strange, indeed, but not one of a kind,
the stunning sunset, but still only a sun,
or the debts and riches of blue-collar grind.
But words and commas show little appeal
if they appeal at all,
like jokes of chirping birds on a window-sill,
or children stumping, screeching, chasing balls.
Perhaps the reason why I stand so still,
and in this stillness wait for the committed call
of reason - should reason find my thrill
of writing about something that is whole.
Make no mistake, for I'm alert and crave
new metaphors and dreams;
what greater bravery than not being brave
and, thus, rejoice the still and quiet beams
of sunsets past? lest not we save
the latest words for last, which shall redeem
the wait, and say them when it's grave.
JV
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