Ducks

To write a poem without preparation, without really thinking about it. It is sheer madness, or, perhaps, it is what underpins all poems in this world. I don't know. And it doesn't really matter. And no one will have to listen to me. Or to even pay attention. What is a fellow supposed to do if the whole world thinks differently, and if the whole world disapproves, and if the whole world distances itself. Is a fellow allowed to dream and to believe in his own dreams? What if he wants to smash up the universe to be able to be with her? What if he needs to change the order of things? Will he really, truly, honestly, have to wait for the next course? Do sad eyes count enough? Yes, I am not in any dumps. On the contrary. Just had a question or two. A hungry duck will fly. Unless he does clip his own wings. No duck will do that for any reason other than fulminating, burning, God-given LOVE.