Incantations

Were every breath an incantation, Every word a prophecy, Would I fear more this consternation, Not writing for anxiety? Were every word a portent, telling, Every sentence writ, a spell, Would my mind ever stop this yelling? Could I my consternation quell? Such large words to write and scrabble, Though loquacious I am not. Cease you, brain! this psychobabble, My brain thinks an awful lot. Would I fear to speak a sentence, Would I fear to write a page Were every word scrawled so portentous, Trapping me in my own cage? Is the poet bound by scripture, Living by the fate he writes? No! I’ll open up a fissure, Jump the gap! I have to fight! I am not the fates’ keeper, But I choose for my own heart That o’er these gaps I’ll be a leaper, And on life’s stage I’ll play my part. Were every breath an incantation, Magic within every word, Would I fear the divination When I, my written words, had heard? Were every word so filled with might That with each word my power grew, Would I, then, still fear to write Lest every single word come true?