How can they drain a poem a day, written in ink, destilled emotion,
How can they strain to do poems that take a month to read,
                                                       that is a lot of ink to bleed.
Is it possible to write, adding colour to leaves and sheaves of
words,
hanging them on dried and dead winter branches, STAY!,
with where my imagination rests frozen,
out there in the open,
                        hoping, looking, seeking
the friction of distraction to warm me up,
so my imagination moves,
it needs to move,
or I become frozen,
where there is an ill wind,
where there is a chill wind,
which hardens my heart,
and drys up the ink,
which looks like
my
own
blood
without
Purpose or
without
Prose

P and P


©DWE122013