I stand by the bank, the water is fresh and still,
staring into its blank, I see the human skill.
He crafts me with care, as black trips over the white
and hopes I am rare, like the moon in a starlit night.
He calls me his work, yes, he works upon me.
He calls me his poem, yes, I was written to be.
He calls me his verse, yes, he tries to rhyme.
He gives yet no name, for, I vanish with time.
I heard a few people say, what my roots look like,
In voice did they sway, with beauty did they strike,
they were laid on straw, and drafted with feather,
attention they could draw, not wither off with weather.
I stare back into the lake, I don't look like them,
and then my senses wake, am I of their stem?
My body is not all equal, my words seem to tangle,
I have no rhyme to spell, I don't seem to mingle.
I was born to express, the feelings he did not,
but now I am to impress, the people he sought.
My life is just presence, I seem to be out of normal.
Yet I am a poem by sense, its namesake and formal.
I don't have a rhyme, it's not a big crime.
I don't have a meter, I need not be sweeter.
I don't have a meaning, this sets me on thinking,
I am not what I am, I am just like a spam.
He comes back I see, with a furious brow,
crumples me in spree, and puts up his throw.
I sink into the waters, the ink becomes the dye.
My shape now alters, and this night I die.