Pieces
Pieces of poems in my mind,
here a broken word
There a webbed line
It’s absurd.
Once vital viscous webs,
Now dried with distant days’ dust,
Blowing in flows and ebbs,
Of bright dawns to dog eared dusks.
Life’s experience may be the milk
That feeds the spirit.
A poet's being could starve ,
if he lived to fear it.
Birds of a feather stick together,
the Spirit is still preening.
Poets muse in whatever weather,
wisely we never stop weaning….
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