Blue Book

If I never were to walk

by the lake to absorb

the roar

of never-ending waves.

If I never were to run

in a meadow chasing

Autumn

chasing a grasshopper.

If I never were to sit

on a dead birch tree

rotten from within

pretending to be intact.

If I never were to fight

for monarchs.

So they could fly in their right and glory,

before returning home.

And if I only were to write

papers for institutions

to be able to pay bills, and

to return home violated.

Would I still write a poem?