Nov 2020
What remains of my poems
Is stillborn
Wrapped in senseless rhythm
Left to fend for itself
In the realm of thought
What remains of my poems
Is a pause
A seizure of the epileptic
The workmanship of
Industrious fallen angels
Is stillborn
Wrapped in senseless rhythm
Left to fend for itself
In the realm of thought
What remains of my poems
Is a pause
A seizure of the epileptic
The workmanship of
Industrious fallen angels
Trying to write when you have a writer's block
