Racking anguish vandalize my soul,
as my pen crawls across the empty page,
leaving the mirror image of my vitality.
A futile exercise turns into self pity.
A useless effort in self agitation.
Months of inactivity has left my muse
abused, misused, defused.
It seems I can write no more.
Is that correct? Is it the writing or the muse?
Writing is discipline, a few words each day.
Do I countervail my imagination?
For subjects must be born within the soul,
that soul I forgot about months ago.
Should I dream of valleys green,
or ice capped mountain unassailable?
Is my muse so hermetically sealed.
Perhaps I'll find it again....or perhaps not.
A Silent One Contest
I told you to be little
You didn’t know why
Signal bead of spittle
Not rain from the sky
I told you to be small
Be stealthy, go unseen
Under a rock go crawl
There display your sheen
I’m telling you it’s frightening
Listen, I can spare you pain
Like a rod you’ll draw lightening
Walk away from my tired refrain
She walks along an avenue
some call the Vale of Tears.
Her agonies and sorrows brew
in eyes that vail her tears.
She whiles alone, her gaze unmet,
behind a veil of tears.
But can she flee from sadness, yet
with no avail of tears?
In time, the Rue of No Regrets
will countervail her tears.
Vale: valley
Vail: let sink
Veil: something that conceals
Avail of: use to one’s advantage
Countervail: offset, counteract
Inspired by poems of KC
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