Poetic Incubation
Here wood-shedding in the cave,
my mind seems to have gone into
an eerie state of suspended animation;
leaving words sitting around and chatting
as if they were in an induced drunken stupor.
When aroused, they seem to rise up
and hop onto a lexical merry-go-round;
or just sit there screaming as if in a dangling
seat of a stalled fairish wheel jammed in mid-air.
Being poetically comatose is
a revelation of the vacuous nature
of spiritless weaving of words void of
purpose—whorl pooling emptiness sinking
deeper into illusionary nothingness.
Pregnant poetic minds do not just exist;
rather, they are living realities of the fertilization
of fertile wordings anchored in endometrial
contemplative cognitive growth.
The poem is not merely a mental ejaculation;
rather, it’s the result of spiritual incubation in
the mind’s womb and when the Supreme Creator
deems so, it is delivered:
the she-shed and man-cave are mere waiting rooms.
Copyright © Millard Lowe | Year Posted 2021
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