You’d think
I’d run out of ideas
To keep writing
Exhaust the last fume
Of creative igniting
But come gloom and doom
Through the roles
I’m reprising
The constant
Invariable
Is revising
Disguising no longer
What made me this way
It’s as natural to me
As a child at play
Its intricacy
Formed
By simplicity’s
Hand
And it’s guided along
By emotion’s command
Yet unplanned
Like a pregnancy
In love conceived
And reflected upon
Like a widow bereaved
When I once again leave,
Venture on,
Bid adieu
To the words overdue
For the few I write you