Along In Procession; the Writing of a Poem

The thoughts they come, the thoughts they go. I’m sitting like a bum trying to make things flow. But I can’t seem to think quite clearly enough, my thoughts, like a candle, just keep getting snuffed. I know for these thoughts it just isn’t fair, and I know for myself I need some fresh air. So I’ll take a walk to clear my head, and for the birds I’ll bring along some bread. I’ve learned about birds from things I've read, the places they go without having been lead. Sometimes I wish that I were a bird, but always take back my every word. For to give up this life for that of a bird, is a notion I’ve deemed completely absurd. Having walked up a hillside a rest I shall take, I’ve a view from the top overlooking a lake. Now I think to myself of the art I’d create, if I had but a canvas or even a slate. I love this place, I like it here. I’ve walked this far, now my heads clear. Yet whisper does the wind unto my ear, I must be departing for nightfall is near. So I'll head back on to my home, and dive into my thinking dome. I find my head a reservoir, of all the thoughts that is and are wanting past their prison bars. I want this gateway flung ajar. Every thought is inside, all in a pack, and there's a crack in the dam that’s holding them back. The thoughts like water trickle through, I need paper and pen to make them flow true. Without paper or pen the thoughts will not surface, without paper or pen, the thoughts have no purpose. I’ve found my paper; I’ve found my pen, but I find myself asking what next, what then? I return to the dam with the crack in itself, and with the pen that I found, I dig for my health. As the rock starts to crumble and the dam falls down, I lay down the paper, under words it will drown. The thoughts they come cascading through, now in the open, here for you.