The Poem Lives and the Poem Dies

These
words
become bound.

Confabulation tied inseparable
from conception
to the process of birth.

The poem grows
or dies
a fatal tragedy.

How is
the writer
to know?

The length,
the depth
of this flow of words?

The poem
becomes
its own.

As, if the words continue
when the pen
is down.

But
the poem
is over.

It has
passed on
in this mortal life.

Remembered
only in these
fanciful delights.

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