Consummated under sheets of inspiration,
Conceived in cryptic dreams,
Created from cloudy concentrations,
The words flowed onto a wrinkled sheet of paper.
I concealed the verse under my pillow,
Entombed beneath my peaceful slumber,
Safe from grating barbarians.
For I do not reside in a steel fortress.
But the poem demanded breath,
And I obliged with wary trepidation.
Exposing naked insights of thought,
To public opinions and consumption.
I was misunderstood in some quarters.
My uneven stanzas documented in dorm rooms,
Lack of rhythm noted in offices,
And style criticized in coffee shops.
But my work was greeted warmly from African savannas,
Treasured in Scotland,
Saluted in London,
And praised from India’s sacred rivers.
In the heartland, school girls knew my name.
Southern belles toasted my talents.
I was pondered over breakfast in Florida,
Embraced in backwoods hamlets.
When I look within,
Searching for the brilliant author,
I question his existence.
The trance, that special state of mind, has passed.
In conscious lucidity I ask the stunning question,
“Who wrote this poem?”