The Refinery of Poetry

Dear Poetry,

I think many thoughts,

But few ever materialize to word

Only the relevant are written,

And what remains, slowly blurred.

A mess of crude oil

Bursts into the forefront of my mental,

Spilling and spewing,

Seemingly useless and accidental.

The beginning is when it’s worst,

Barring my writing significantly,

Some thoughts I draw-out to the point that some may label as “excessively lengthy,”

While others, I end much too

Precipitously.

My words are strewn across the sheet,

In an order unknown to me,

But from a gaze a step behind my seat,

A seam of structure, I seem to see.

The oil slowly settling,

However, still very far from pure,

Longs for power one day,

And in due time, it will mature.

I decipher my language

Through ridding it of trifle,

And once it’s of grammatical acceptance,

The result is now delightful.

This once litter of raw, crude oil,

Now refined and much more clean,

Flows with itself harmoniously,

As a much more powerful kerosene.

The sentences, now fluently written,

Acting as a traveling fluid,

Begin to form a developed work,

For persuasion, perfectly suited.

Once ineffective, idle, and vain,

And the furthest thing from special,

The newly refined vat of oil,

Can now power a tremendous vessel.

A work of final poetry

With not a thing left to arrange,

Can now be used to entice

The most immense and powerful change.