Poems

Poems come from god knows where,

and god knows why they come to me.

And god knows if they're good enough

to write down for posterity.

For all I know they're utter trash

fit only for the rubbish fire.

I smear my body with the ash

that comes from poetry's funeral pyre.

The holy sadhus use the ash

from conflagrations of the dead.

Because they must they take this path,

and beg to get their daily bread.

I beg to get my daily rest,

and also take the path I must;

writing the poems that I fear

deservedly will come to dust.