The poem wrote itself
Out of context
In a breathless void
With no poet
Holding the shivering pen.
The poem wrote itself
Out of history
In a suffocating torrent
With no words
Holding them together.
The poem wrote itself
Out of sheer curiosity
In the likely event
Warnings were insufficient
Heralds of doom.
The poem wrote itself
Out of touch
In every sense
Without a beating heart
Holding a poet’s sorrow.