But seriously a poem has a life
like a man through his span
there's a start, some verse, then an end.
But it is born from a seed, not an egg
and a sperm, watch it squirm
from its start, it breaks its casing.
Interlacing words that arise like vines
sometimes quick into sticks
sometimes stones when the poet's mad.
And then an innocent child might play
like it knows where it goes,
instead it becomes an adult.
That is when it tries to find its meaning
which may hide, closed inside,
or is displayed proudly each line.
Then later in its life, when it gets old
it may tire, no more fire
in its belly, but not its soul.
At the end, it's more than ready to go
it lays down on some noun,
a last word that leaves it in peace.
**From a completed poetry challenge in 2012. The topic is...
© 2012 Mach B