And For What But To Write

This malfeasant rite is
for what but to write
so carried by spite that
hardly took flight

      and for what but to write...

For whom it was told
or for how it was sold
and it didn't even know
for what it did show

      and for what but to write...

I wrote it all down
it sang without a sound
yet I felt it spin me around
for whom it was meant

     and for what but to write....

In giving it away the
story had stay it blew
me away and everyone
who read it was played

     and for what but to write...

Drafted in ink it cared
not to think or consider
to a brink what would even
fill a missing link

    and for what but to write...

The story was cold
in its frenetic fold
the fancywork was old
preclusive I was told

    and for what but to write....

It hardly came back
from so specious a tack
so cambered by lack
its antiquity fell in a stack

    and for what but to write....

Excrescent in tone
it fell like a stone
that landed in mud
with a quiet thud

    and for what but to write....