Poem: Driven

 

Driven

a gaff(e?) of roses,

crows that scissor in flight,

or the sharp flail of a butterfly,

my fingers bleed prose

while i suffer such wounds of sparse sentence.

 

i crave to feel as wonderful

as an entomologist hawking a beetle;

for my words to strive and swarm

into the verbal equivalent of original insects.

 

if only someday i unearthed a new molecule,

something unheard of, even though infinitesimal, still,

aromatic to the nostril of literature,

 

maybe then i could die complete.

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5/28 "unearth" replaces "unearthed"

5/22 removed a word

5/21 ... some mods ... fixed spelling

"God has an inordinate fondness for beetles"

Original title  "Mad Poet"