A Poem's Birth From the crux of my hand and through the pen a poem arrives as a new-born child, motherless child, unique in form, ready for flight on tender wings, shaped and cleansed by the mental storm. I hand you immortality, and you may give it back to me like sisters and brothers who came before you possess unique personality, but you're full of me-all me really all that I am I give to you more and more and more and I am fully as much as I was before When I am gone those who listen to you will think of me. So, I annoint you with this special task breathe now in your new domain the plane through which emotions pass so sublime, fixed in time, compromise of truth and rhyme motherless child of my restless mind.
Michael Draper's Questions:
1. Does the poem rhyme too much. I like to make verses rhyme, but did I
2. Generally speaking, do you like this poem?
Thanks for your opinions.