You think it is about your ‘Jeep’
Four wheels already second-hand,
Or your yellow metals
Or fancy leather bags,
You think it’s easy to bleed onto a page,
Tumbled thoughts turned to joy, to pain, to light, to rage,
Wooden words made alive.
I suppose it is for you exist,
So you can raid my blog
And take your pick
Put your name to my sweat
Paste your greed to my work.
Fat hairy lie.
You might have your jeeps
You may have your temporary things,
I have something
You cannot steal,
A tower of salt you can only pinch
A sea you can merely spoon from
A canvas without sides.
And when Jeeps and bling and things are gone,
Words will remain.