I've grappled with the subject now for days,
and as my head was flound'ring in the waves
I'd loose control, and grasp at what I craved.
For in those moments, - I was lost for words,
oblivious to the flight-paths of the birds.
And I was breathless, speechless at my craft;
a poet without words is simply daft.
But poets do not give themselves to death,
no matter how they grieve or are bereft.
Knee deep in silt, and filt'ring like a sieve,
they find the limpets, words by which they live.
"My friend! Marconi! You are not to blame,
that I need reach, for the "Off" switch, again."
__________
© Cormac McCloskey
29th June 2010
Notwithstanding previous revisions, this poem has been significantly revised, yet again; and among the various changes, I have reverted to the original title. 6th May 2011
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