His rote now writ, too large for him to tote.
In quiet mode, squirming ambitious fit...
Yet sit he would, to savor what he wrote;
mulling the twist and turning soul of it.
It gleams of gore and life’s ensuing gait;
impassioned pleas of love to softly grow
while nebulae whirl and patiently wait;
the poem’s only thought “to get up and go”.
So, go it will-- ride the stars far and wide,
to ramble or hide, what e’re the demand.
My fervent wish, for life on the far side,
have somewhere to write and a pen in hand.
My lasting goal- - -to finish what I seek
for better, or worse, an ending to speak.