Poem

Where does it begin,

where does it end?

Does one set out to write it

or it chooses to flow itself

through sheer abandon

of guilt and shame?

Accommodative at times,

the all encompassing mother of art

At times restrictive

a miser bean-counter keeping account

of every word, each punctuation.

Giving-in to impulses, indulgent

ravenous glutton of ideas

At other times, just shirking away

with hints at meaning

and context obscure

even to the so called poet.

The title may have nothing to do

with what follows

No fear or pretention of coming across

as 'entitled' there

You could end it

after a line or two

or two too many

that have crawled past the bend of comprehension

and need

The order of prose is the tantrum of a verse

You may choose the former

but the latter has to choose you

if you're lucky enough

Lucky enough

to wait out

to end up being

a poet,

good or otherwise

not that it matters

at least to the poem

once it is done doing

abandon is her religion.