I have no poetry in me.
None left.
Vacant as the lot next to the tracks
Rivers of shattered glass
beside the rusting rivets.
Bruised and disarticulated crates.
Pebbles, bottlecaps.
Tiny tenacious weeds and yellow lichen.
But no poetry.



2 Replies to “Bereft”

  1. Now that I do not believe. You’re quite a poem yourself. As long as you cultivate other interests besides poetry and remain open, without allowing into your being the ravages of complacency, the inspiration will return.


    1. Thank you for the care, the concern, the compliment and the advice. From you, all are welcome. I was trying to catch the feeling of “emptiness” – as it “feels” in the present tense, rather than what it is or what it portends. I am not precisely “worried” as I do know that, as with breath, there is a breathing out and a breathing in 🙂 In passing, I seriously doubt complacency could ever tie me down for more than ten minutes – haha


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