Ah, the weary poet rises to the task
Of making sense of the senseless yet again
And though he has not written such in the past
He thinks rhyme will be his potion if and when
The old poetic magic re-enters his furry head
And frays the cobwebs nestled in his brain
But only cliché and doggerel instead
Have half a chance if he is to write again

And so he labors over every phrase
And every syllable is torture as he writes
The fire which once burned in him, a blaze
Is now just smoke and ashes in the night
And love, which stirred emotions to the core
And found its way on pages writ in flame
Is just an echo of a memory, no more;
And nothing he will write can be the same

The heated quill may speak love’s epitaph
But the lover then will tear the words in half.

07/31/2017

Posted on 07/31/2017
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