The poetry I pen today will speak from out my soul. And yet its incantation cannot contain my whole. It speaks for me, yet only part -- it does not know my mind. Its innocence is natural; Its paper eyes are blind. And like the lines poured out today; my mind finds limitation. I seek to find eternity -- Some startling revelation. You'd think I'd learn to fail the test; not wrestle with frustration. You'd think I'd know the poem's role In pondering creation.
