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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.