Armies of words gather in my head
To march so boldly onto the page.
They work their wonders
Who knows how?
Why they pick me as their channel
For their landing craft
I’ll never know.
Some accident of birth:
Genetic fluke –
For which I take no credit –
Makes me nectar to these ants
That line themselves into verse.
Compulsion drives me to write
As salmon must jump those water falls
To return to their spawning grounds.
I have to speak, or rather type:
Express myself
No matter what,
Whether good or bad.
Is there a cure for this affliction of mine?
Can I ever stop myself from writing?
I very much doubt it.
Paul
Butters
©
PB 16\11\2018.
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