The Birth of a Poem

A poem not yet written
But which has me smitten;
A poem still in my mind
Parts of which I still cannot find;
The start and the end
Are still open for amend;
But the poem as a whole
Still unclear is its role;
Its role in this world
Has still not been unfurled;
In this world ruled by prose
Why a poem did I choose?
For a poem to toil and labor
What fruit will I savor?
As I keep thinking
In my mind the poem is twinkling;
Ready to just come out
A seed ready to sprout;
But what is this...does it sound like a poem?
A ceremonious birth or a sad quite requiem;
It is me. Your child
Said the poem at last;
The one you nurtured
And in your mind had cast;
I have finally bloomed and flowered
Thanks to the love and care you have showered;
But why do you hesitate
About my inevitable fate?
I am after all you
A reflection anew;
Of your mind and your thought
Of the demons you have fought;
Of the things you hold dear
And to loose what you most fear;
So why bind me in yourself
Let me be free;
Why just a seedling
Let me be a tree;
A tree of a poem
In a land of prose;
A tree of your thought
Of what you chose;
It was then I felt
A burning desire;
To have the poem rise
Over mundane fire;
Like a phoenix it rose
Over the ashes of my thought;
And it is now the poem
Which to you I have brought.