Oral Tradition

They say I’m killing it
With ink, in writing
The poem;
It dies
On the page with
My black bic.
Before I put it down,
They say
It has life, it
Breathes and grows.
That’s before
I stab it down to the paper,
Mark after mark with my pen,
Clumsily, greedily
Pinning it down, pleased
With its death.

C. Bronco
'tis the season