There are no more poems inside my soul
not any that words can drag out into the open
stripped naked and raw, strewn across the page
like tiny secret treasures-exposed in all their frailties
There are but bits and pieces left strung in mid flight
like suprised stars caught dancing when the moon is asleep
stopped, unwritten, without shape or form
wings spread-unable to fly...I'm not sure why
I wonder what good are pieces of poems...
do they have a home or should they fade into silence
the junkyard of the unwritten, uncried-incomplete
Muffled-muted-white flag of retreat?
Until I relapse
once again
into a poem
Originally Posted On Site: 2008-01-07 12:19:22
Last Login: 06.02.08
Visits as of 12-12-07: 88
