poem 013

In Linings from Jeremy Reed

In dark matters I abound,
surrounded by walls I cannot sound,
as poet I write whatever on,
wanting paper, serves as ground.

Scarred and scratching,
the mess into heaps; eccentric laughing,
with ideas messed with grime,
I turn to forms precise,
and figure my interest pointedly.

Thus, in manner, I speak to me,
pounding a course from letters wrung,
or using my sharpened lead I pull,
a line whose product begins the start,
of a world from part I come.

From out that centre I present,
by negatatives within mind’s reform,
tending myself past the peace,
of quiet calm reigning sovereign,
where my intent always furthers
places I need yet create.