Ode To the Formulation of a Poem

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.