Wednesday, September 1, 2010

When a poet is weary,
His writing stops
He sleeps
Like a broken soldier on a bed of verse
On poetic sheets of lost desire
To the last elegy of olden words, he's worn down to a fine repose
The rancour goes
The tumult ends
Weariness weighs the tired eyes
The poet sleeps for a worldly while
The writing ceases, but time will tell

No comments: