Poets have no tools, never br No tangible tools that is to say br Some people even call them fools br Poets have a different worldview br Built on emotions, sensations, lacerations br Splinters of pain br And all that the heart holds to be true. br br Poets have no right way or wrong way br (Its true that they often lose their way anyway) : br Poetry has always been difficult to define br Scrambled thoughts, scrambled lines br That is to say br Perfect lines, perfect rhymes br Clockwork metric thoughts and thou and thine br Stanzas, couplets and all the rest of it br My emotions flew jagged against the sky br My thoughts often threatened to run away br Like me; I speak about pain and despair br People who are going to die br Corpus callosum, existence ad infinitum br Transient joy, the rainbow arching br Spectral armies marching br Tramping, tramping down history's worn-out lanes br And the lines in a stranger's face br His apparent despair, his evident pain br Jerk me from those absolute, imperfect rhymes br I am myself corpus callosum-like again.