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.