Craft

For each poet,
there is but one poem.

It is born with him.

Many versions;
many attempts.

Language is a
soiled deck of cards
passed through
endless hands.

Sleepless nights;
anxious mornings;
eternal days
placing the cards
in new patterns.

Reshuffle the deck
of words and sounds
often as you like.

Patterns emerge;
patterns vanish;
the substance
does not change.

It is only
the terrible doubt
of appearances
makes it seem
otherwise.

For each poet,
there is but one poem.
  - mce