The Blank Page
All I am missing is that
one word
which will connect to
the next word
and then another,
sprinting like relay runners
passing a crooked baton
from palm to sweaty palm.
Part of me wishes they'd pace
themselves, the epiphany aglow
like an oil-soaked wick, indomitable.
But what I secretly long for is a dash
over the finish line scrawled beyond the
next hill, far away from here,
from me.
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