poem, junket, seminal, sprinkling, punctual, red, swagger, ever, pop, stops, timid, shimmer
hello, poem.
we meet at
the very same junket,
stuck.
seminal ideas,
once rosy-cheeked and vivacious
now lie crumpled and discarded on the floor.
They are used up and we cannot coax ourselves
to use them again.
there is not even a sprinkling
of new and fresh,
none of the passion we had once
for those words.
the reaper is jealous, and ever punctual to
slaughter the muse.
he lies in wait for her, Inspiration, to rise as the glorious
phoenix from the ashes of frustration
her blood is red
where it has spilled over the
page
all my bravado and swagger
have gone with her,
leaked in inky blotches.
nothing comes to
pop and sizzle like blue lightning
through my mind.
the kinetic electricity
of neurons firing fast
just stops.
there is only the premature ejaculation
of a timid poetess
and then nothing more...
even the shimmer
has begun to fade.
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