Rhythms Falter
My fingers hover half a breath
from harvesting a budding storm
but rhythms falter, unimpressed
beneath word-tides I would possess
and drown in squirming moons to mourn.
My fingers hover half a breath,
my listless pen held limp at breast
in hope my muse might be reborn
but rhythms falter, unimpressed.
Insatiable the emptiness
I can not fill with rhythmic scorn.
My fingers hover half a breath
so tempted by poetic quests
that leave them damp and hiccup-worn
but rhythms falter, unimpressed.
Unquenchable, the thirst for depth,
the prick of penetrating thorn
My fingers hover half a breath
but rhythms falter, unimpressed.
Copyright © Jean Marble | Year Posted 2009
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