No Words
A poem looks at me,
I cannot see its face.
"What am I" it says.
This question is a mind-trap.
I reply:
You are an expression of the I AM.
The poem continues its inquiry:
"Am I good or bad?"
Another ditch to fall into.
I retort:
"You are what appears.
Good is bad sometimes,
bad can be good."
I lose patience.
"No more philosophic repartee!
Can I start writing you out now,
make you appear”?
"Not today,"
says the faceless one.
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