When a poem is done <br />My soul is purged, <br />The torment released, <br />In nouns and verbs. <br /> <br />I sift the prison of my soul <br />And the words run out <br />My bitter toil. <br /> <br />For a while <br />There is some relief <br />My soul is cleansed, <br />My thoughts deceased; <br /> <br />But who would have thought <br />Would have had the impression <br />That in my tiny skull <br />Marched such a precession? <br /> <br />Of opinions inked <br />Of distinction made <br />Of memories linked, <br />A vast parade. <br /> <br />A ceaseless flow <br />Of subtle notes <br />Where do they go? <br />Once they're unyoked. <br /> <br />Out into the wide world <br />Of Padip and Elaine <br />Strangers I'd love to meet <br />On a continental train.<br /><br />David McLansky<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/when-a-poem-is-done-2/
