Writing Without Reason
Writing can be anything,
Set down on willing page.
Love and loss,
Both popular trains of thought.
Or better yet the loss of love.
Better still is the agony of agony,
The awful angst of it all.
A writer needs no reason,
To sing about the season.
The beauty of a sunset, or very first snowfall
Nature’s lovely tabla rasa tolerates the muttering,
That just might capture it, just for once and all.
The page lies there looking up, in hushed anticipation,
Of where the writers mind, may venture out today,
If the page and pen only knew,
This writer has no clue!
Copyright © James Rudd | Year Posted 2009
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