Subconcious Depths of Poem
In the dark late hours alone
asleep I am composed.
The words form without words
and live and die in a world of their own
And somehow with expressions of subcoucious
yet expressionless and void
the poems and music comes alive in manifest
yet only to themselves, like one hoarding a treasure.
But somehow, perhaps by skill alone
the poet struggles through pen to sturr the words up
and to push them, unwilling subjects of the mind
into coherence, to mount them apon their throne
And together they might exist as an expression
of the expressionless. Like a life
amongst the lifeless
and in their existance, evoke love or passion.