Why Write

From sources unknown, a song is grown, Sunk into the stem of a cerebellum’s bone. By which aperture does such a flood flow in? I cannot tell if either rhyme or reason may begin. The spurs of sudden sparks click the heels beneath a once broken back, In nonce occasions explored betwixt a body and mind not often intact. Why rhyme with words infrequently spoken? Why do I sigh in such songs I’ve awoken? Is it me? Are these me? These words breathing before thee? Or is it I, within the eye that hides behind the other two of three? What do I want for a reader to see beneath my cloak? Scattered similes enciphered into unseen thoughts I haven’t spoke? I apologize for esoteric speech that may perchance not speak, To a poet who knows that code is but a key to locks that lookers seek. And so, unanswered still is a question I have not known, From what source does a poet’s song make to itself shown?