By Bud Koenemund
All the words unwritten – whirling about
Inside my head, like a discordant storm
Of prolixity – threaten to drown out
Thought, and resist my attempts to transform
A handful from chaos to harmony.
They rattle and clatter around my skull,
Banging together precariously;
Roaring like a hurricane without lull.
But, when a few words tumble into place,
Coalescing to form rhythm and rhyme,
I oft' abandon slumber; embracing
The whisper of my muse past midnight's chime.
Though my songs suffer form's captivity,
Such limits arouse creativity.