Words find their way.
Hearts speak through fingers.
Reading eyes are mirrored in
Ink systematically spilled in
The shape of sounds
And minds.

A pen resting on the table is a
Flatline.
A blank piece of paper merely
Dead, compressed wood.
Don't deny us your genius.
There is no try in poetry.

Has the well run dry
Or did it just lose its funding
Of heartbreak, ache, and mistakes?

             *What is there to drink
     When the land is no longer livable
              And we've moved on
                 To better pastures?

I've never known the days
To tick away so slowly
As they have of late
Waiting for my age
To reach retirement
When my body feels
As if it's already there