A Writer Says

I completed just yesterday,

My 737 pages of butterflies,

Which they name a ‘novel’,

And I name ‘My return from carnage’.

No, I saw no ghost in my backyard

Inspiration is dialect,

Because I am here stuck, members,

Of the miraculous mad society,

The men reading Literature.

Or Literature reading the men,

Lending to them, only sometimes,

The meaning of themselves.

Lending to them, only sometimes,

The climax in the interlude.