Get Published on Female First

Get Published on Female First

No quarter requested,

No quarter received.

No time,

Not even to search out a rhyme.

No time,

Only the hand, heart and mind

On this mad careening rush.

A brush with eternity

As the muse begs 'one more push'.

No time to consider where it is going.

No time to reflect as words are flowing.

No time to count metre

Nor direct flow.

This child knows its purpose,

Knows where it must go.

It flows where it needs to

And twists where it must.

Rules left behind us,

Trampled in dust.

At last the child births

And its strangeness is a grace

Unlooked for, yet treasured

No matter its pace.

It fits not the pattern

Of rhythm, form or rhyme

Yet stands with integrity

As it is

For all Time.