i am the proverbial giant
climbing the ladder of poetry
with a hundred clichés
stolen one by one
from my last plaintive song
and unaware that i've grown
redundant
a sea parts for me when
i stick out my mighty cane
it catches lightning bolts
and glowworms in the dark
my power is in the correctness
of my attitude towards
the world
what am i now if not gentle
where have i last seen
a sunset sink into the sea
or picked plump berries
or jumped into a cold river
where i was momentarily
healed?
what is the last thought
in my head that i can savor
and save for another poem
in a cavalcade of rain
when my lack of fresh ideas
leaves me gasping for
charged air?
Thanks to Mawr Gorshin for the connection.
Tres bien! Je comprends totalement cette problème d'une manque d'inspiration a propos d'écriture.
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