Poetry does not come to me today
No images, no scents-
Not of charred wood nor of jasmined hair
Nothing. Not even the stranger- broody, brusque
Bothers today, to ask too much out of me.
Today has random conversations
conversations about bad movies,
Half-baked American accents,
and us.
Today is free of form- meaningless, exalted,
then subdued.
No, poetry does not come today.
But you do.
0 comments:
Post a Comment