It ebbs and flows,
And puts on a show,
Then it calls you on the phone,

‘Poem am I,
trying to fly,
Can you help me touch,
The lingual sky?’

‘I try, I try!’ say you or I,
(It doesnt matter who but why,)
‘But I fail to grasp what happens last,
My mind lingers while it drags,’

‘Hurry, hurry!’ It says slurried,
‘Time runs short and thoughts run their course!’

Of course! Of course!
I scramble through a storm of flannel,
Trying to get a sturdy handle,

I ask,
‘Would it matter,
If I hadn’t,
gotten maddened,
And deftly crossed the bridge to passion?’

‘Would it matter,
If I instead,
wrote mechanically from my head?’

Nothing was said.

The poem had flitted away,
I still do not know where to this day,
Perhaps an island with a hyperbolic volcano,
I sigh and remember I need to let go,