sitting here staring at that blinkin' cursor
having nothing other than that buzzing...

A poem is the funeral pyre bright,
Of pulsations once exhumed from the deep...

known quantity bereft of quality;
a name of little beyond its letters...

Farther onward, always skyward;
high above, hurtling ever hard...

Entering through resplendent gates,
to where countless dead seek final rest...

wreathe of words sprout upon doorstep bed
beneath a far-looking moon, whisper to ear...