imagination

spring was last tuesday  
if it concerns you,  
and with just days before May,  
these are the ramblings that seem to come my way.  
the scratching of the quill  
the flow of the ink.... are,  
but prose upon a page.  
each line seeks a thrill  
but to some remains only as a pill.  
the sweat soaked journal  
the blotches,
frayed, the reminiscent of each dot  
oh the cost, the worth...not.  
branches of the imagination  
as a tree  
from where  
all one's roots become formed.  
the words begin to dance  
in essence, they do perform.  
they are but splatted.  
but does it matter...  
the imagination comes,  
naive and raw,  
rolled up  
as if,  
maybe the search  
maybe my words  
neatly tucked in the bottle.  
crafted messages  
to be cast,  
heaved upon a wave  
yet they keep returning.  
to a page i am but a slave.