09-07-2011, 07:47 AM
My song is silent as bread
arranged to be cut.
Divided, devoured, digested.
I am here because I'm here
penning this song for you now,
this ode about nothing at all.
Do my barbaric rhythms grate;
this beggar at the feet of verse?
This isn't a poem about poetry.
I ask to say something at all,
padding like a stud his shorts.
This line is here for symmetry.
arranged to be cut.
Divided, devoured, digested.
I am here because I'm here
penning this song for you now,
this ode about nothing at all.
Do my barbaric rhythms grate;
this beggar at the feet of verse?
This isn't a poem about poetry.
I ask to say something at all,
padding like a stud his shorts.
This line is here for symmetry.
"We believe that we invent symbols. The truth is that they invent us; we are their creatures, shaped by their hard, defining edges." - Gene Wolfe