Words fall like polished stones
tumbling upon the page with a splash
and I take no credit
for how they configure
A wind blows through me
and emotions stir
My only job is to give the wind
a voice and to put a new page
down when the old is full
Writing is less me having something to say
and more something which must be said having me.
My muse is hooked on dark pastiche
It is a foul and thoughtless creature
Words from another are now unleashed
And my form is devoid of feature
Where once she enticed me with creative flourish
Now my words are cut low: harsh and malnourished
I’ve nothing to say, to inspire or sway
And the pages are blistered with pain
There comes only fear, rot and decay
And the occasional deluge of rain.
The Winter Bites My Bones 