When a poem is done
My soul is purged,
The torment released,
In nouns and verbs.
I sift the prison of my soul
And the words run out
My bitter toil.
For a while
There is some relief
My soul is cleansed,
My thoughts deceased;
But who would have thought
Would have had the impression
That in my tiny skull
Marched such a precession?
Of opinions inked
Of distinction made
Of memories linked,
A vast parade.
A ceaseless flow
Of subtle notes
Where do they go?
Once they're unyoked.
Out into the wide world
Of Padip and Elaine
Strangers I'd love to meet
On a continental train.
David McLansky
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/when-a-poem-is-done-2/
