Tis a poem
that comes from
a slow brain
today
Van Winkle
murmurings,
muttering,
postulating
creativity
as it
settles
further
further
down
into the
crevices
of wrinkled
wretched
weariness

slothlike
the words
come
like
treacle
on the
morn of the
winter solstice

synapses fire
with all the bang
of sodden gunpowder

and before you all
lays the detritus
of a mind
sans sleep
sans caffine
sans the wisdom
to read... not write

Tis a poem
orat least
the shadow of a thought
that wished, that wanted
one day, one fine day
to grow up
to become a poem....
but became this instead