Iron Poet, Round XIII.
Welcome to the latest round of Iron Poet, the game where you give me three words and I give you a poem. This is an adaptation of a standard writer's workshop activity, and I do not claim the original concept. I just claim to enjoy doing it
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Stretched out on my couch like
A line of poetry that had been
Forgotten by its poet; too perfect,
Too much for me.
"Do you think anyone can?"
"Commit linguistic theft at
Your own peril," I quipped.
"The heroes of language
Are standing by to thwart you,
Bring you to justice,
Imprision you in the Hall of Grammar."
"I'm serious," you said, and
"So am I," I said, and
You folded in on yourself,
An unfinished sonnet,
An uncompleted rhyme.
There is a word, my love.
It is not mine; it is not yours;
Its creator still walks the world.
If there is a public domain of speech,
The word does not belong there,
But there is a word all the same.
"Sonder" means that everyone,
Young or old, strange or known,
Is an uncompleted poem;
Everyone exists, whether we
Know them or not.
I cannot define you.
I cannot rewrite you.
I cannot make you mine.
"Who owns a word?" you asked.
Might as well who owns the world.
Someone does, someone does...
That someone is not me.
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