Voice Search... Poem by GRANT FRASER

The one in your
head, or so you
tell me,

dictate to self
and that alone,

who put's jewellery
in their bread,

not you!

starts baking sentences,

to see what can rise?

it's the process,
in exactly what you
thought you did,

that search...

that eats your head,
alive, raw, without
evidence,

I mean it's his dirty
mind, not mine,

to wash words,
not dishes,

but it's nothing
if that's exactly
what's required,

what if words just
wash ephemerally
over you,

then do not hide,
the one's that mark
the spots where you
now stand,

or others that are
picked for defining
mountains,

see nothing of yourself,
and herald little...

you have to live,
others just lie
buried in books...