I Really Don’t*

I really don’t write these poems
They just use me to write themselves
They just well up in me, like tears
Into the inkwell of my mind my pen delves

I really don’t choose these pretty words
They just appear before me, in a line
And arrange themselves, like a flock of birds
Into a pattern I did not make – maybe it’s divine

I really don’t make up these rhyming lines
On their own they seem to emerge
As if responding to some unseen muse
Who demands a sonnet, an elegy or a dirge

I really don’t know how many stanzas there will be
But I surely know when a poem is done
This one seems to have another stanza left
It will be ended by the muse, just like it was begun

Could it be like the cosmic dust
That they say permeates everything
Or maybe some long-dead poet’s spirit
Lives inside me, occupies my being?

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