poetry

words

from where do the words, ideas come
they seem to fall-
to fall from my head, done
as if I was the one
for which the thought was meant
yet i know intent
is ill spent
perusing the conscious
it's nonsense
meaning blares itself from nowhere
in the silent stare
at a wall
such gall
to think that though aware
I can dare
to evoke meaning
such an unseemly
artifact
inexact
crossing over from lucidity
to stupidity
but the flow is a must
that outlives any trust
in authenicity
or simple veracity
there is a life apart
devoid of rationale
sometimes banal
that one cannot sort

just there it spins, not far
from moths trapped in a jar
released to fly
who knows why