All I Have Are These Words

All I have are these words
ending and beginning
all I have is this life so
turbulently spinning
it all comes down to no degree
or margin of error
all it lives by is without a decree
in an irretrievable fetter
each phrase comes out
in a pin-pricked way as
each bead of sweat builds
in a dim wit display
absorbed by a compressed
and bleached wood pulp
scrawled on frantically
in marginally good result
mad as some good 'ole
Emily Dickinson prose
tactlessly spattered on as
if with done with a garden hose
I'm nobody well known
but I can surely speak
I'm without venal goals but
yet not a nihilistic freak
I just like to sit here and
let it flow as the allegorical
story gets irrevocably told
its gets longer and deeper
as I continue to get old
it draws itself out in shadows
that follow my soul
so in harboring all this
and feeling it disgourge
I wonder is it a pleasantry
or a pestulant scourge
to know so much and yet
say so little in a frank attempt
to forge ahead to know myself
and see a forming plot
to define all that matters
and that matters a lot
what doesn't matter is all around
it even has its own irascible sound
listen and learn and ask to be shown
but don't be entranced by
the deafening drone
whom are you? don't ask me
ask any old honest crone...