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Word-Weary
I don't choose the muse
the muse chooses me
but when I need her most
then whereabouts is she
abandoned and self-mocked
not word one could I pen
with writer's block
my fate cast to the wind
but if the wraith had knocked
as does opportunity
I couldn't tell
on the other hand
her silence rings a bell
so left to my own devices
of weft warp and weave
forged in fire ashes to ashes
dust from the stars
I perceived is what we are
and word-weary all I could conceive
Copyright ©
Martin Howard Samuel
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