The Silver Maker Poem by James McLain

i am the art of silver that you gaze into and make
and i am strict.
strict and hard,
harder than the strictest,
and holding it, i am the supreme possessor
of that and behind the glass from which you gaze.
do not do it, as thus i did,
because for your will
and your wants i may have need...my preconception.
rigid is your posture and what pray tell you speak
and which you meet to greet me,
swallowed exactly as you ascribed, it is that directly,
whether love with repugnance...unassisted.
I am not just cruel and honest-the eye of the small box
where four corners you angle within too acquire.
When it is thine fifty one -forty nine majority,
i think you meditate, concerning the opposite wall.
that ink spot and pink looking on they ignore,
until you turn your back.
i looked at that and I think of that therefore
and that is my central issue and one part too long.
but she that blinks.
another surface and darkness is no time to us.
this time as for me as when at the lake, it is the front lawn.
the woman bends in me, is she, the soft talking of my range
is really therein thus searched.
there are then some and as i am not politically correct,
and those that are, turn on that her candle month after month.
i meet to her and reflect that it is, i so faithfully.
she imparts too me the damage
and i give her proper remuneration, to which there then is
great agitation of the hand. i am important for her, i think.
she keeps coming back and going away.
normal i believe for she is a woman.
those where as my every morning
and my darkness is exchanged for her light smiling face.
with me as for her the girl, it is young but not to young and
old but not to old when the old woman like the hot flashes
in her only one, while every, everyday the sun rises on me.