I Am Who This Poem Is Making

I am who this poem is making; this shy monster beginning to understand that in life one must release the roar. I must surrender to this nameless moment; this consequence of destiny waiting for the impatient clouds of spring to turn the seasons. No tomorrow no yesterday, just this naked awakening. I have dressed myself with this veil of my obligation. I have drawn it about me like the calmer clouds of June and it is everywhere inside of me. I am this silent joy, like summer clouds crumbling to the vague voice of autumn sun. I am poet, poem, poetry, drifting freely like the lonely clouds of autumn not yet possessed by that harsher reality. I am who this fading verse has made and all it has done is meaningless...