How dare I be so presumptuous
to suppose that my words have meaning to others?
That these scraps of thought
and ink
and wrinkled paper,
Are anything more
than the poorly digested
pile of berries
Left behind by the bear,
Without even the benefit
of steam to herald their arrival
in the cold morning air
I must have faith,
That it is necessary to me
To process these words
to make room for new ones to draw sustenance from,
And discard those
of no further use;
A simple act of biology
and survival,
Much like the bear
and his stomach
Copyright © Andrew McKnight. All Rights Reserved.