So Do I

I read the unreadable,
Compose the unsayable
That seems so bland as to seem
Already said, said and done.
I pause and I lie down with
The lion who would eat me,
Were it not I read to him.

I cease. No cognates exist
Prior to that Attic grace.
Think about that. The compost
You imagine when you read
Compositions hides within
Its continuous decay
A word that once meant to pause.