Poems do simply come,
from whence I do not know.
Bubbling up, through and from-
my mind’s undertow.
And when they scare me,
or oft declare me,
evil in my own shame,
I wonder then,
if ghouls plunder when
I think myself insane.
For words assail me,
though don’t avail me,
of thought or wonderings.
They simply are,
as from afar,
without my added colorings.
Are they Ghoul’s or God’s,
tempestuous or frauds?
Only time can tell.
The one thing sure,
they’re most obscure,
and probably –
come from hell.
. .. .... ....... .......... ............... ......................... © 2014 John Allen Richter .........................
johnallenrichter 