Lines erupt in staccato bursts
Of bullet holes stitching a rural sign
With rusted violent circles
Heedless of the command to “STOP”.
Each line adds to the cadence,
Cadence becomes my metre.
The metre is in the phrasing.
The phrasing serves a purpose;
To give pause for thought,
Ideological parentheses,
Encapsulate an idea
And earn the title “Poetry”.
Or perhaps the misfiring of neurons
In an old man’s brain.
Puzzle pieces flying out
With hidden purpose.
Assemble them if you can.
Somewhere between thought and keystroke
A little piece is lost.
Between keystroke and paper
A little piece is lost.
Somewhere between paper and publisher
A little piece is lost.
From publisher, to retailer, to eager reader,
Each step chips away at
The meaning of my message.
A little piece is lost.
If I have put enough effort
Into shaping this unwieldy thing,
If my work is to have any meaning,
If I have given enough clues,
If my trail of crumbs lie undisturbed,
If I have led you from A to Z,
If I have done my job,
You can put it back together.
It has rhythm when it needs a pulse.
It has form when form is required.
It’s long enough when there is no more.
It is short enough when it stops.
It rhymes when rhyming serves a purpose.
It’s done when I say it’s done.
The rest is yours.
Palimpsest 
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