the poet

travel is a luxury he cannot afford

and the heartaches have all become too easy to understand
and accept.

boredom lost its appeal

and he feels too old to suffer some;

so he sits down
and ponder

with the same bag of emotions

and clouds of ideas

and nothingness;

the muse, for whatever it is now for him,
is all bled out and dry like some barren desert.

the somehow comfortable chair in his office
recalls the dusty and stained bed
he had in his younger turbulent years;

the plush and intricate architecture of his
work station echoes the hollowness
of his empty and usually blackened room

but that is all about it.

sometimes, he gets lucky though, all too glad to have
a train of thought run around his head; writing the poem,
it will sound eternally the same
like his previous ones.

amused, he finds himself laughing and paused ——

thinking that for 23 years,

he’d been trying hard

to write a poem.


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