You can't compare,
You can't complete
The line, the sentence, the poem, the life.
You can't comprehend the mind of a poet,
Speak not of what you don't know.
Overspill reconnecting gilded twines of truth,
Splashed and dabbled into ink,
Paper soaking in wisdom.
Lacking inspiration, strayed away from the sacred muses.
Desecrated the holy routine, violated -
The sacred spring of inspiration dried to a dust bowl.
You've had the draught and drunk it dry,
Now scraping the base for drops of dew,
Underfed and underdrunk, afterloved and now
The plate is empty.
Starched dry of opportunity, for progress' sake.
Busy lives no longer free to mingle with life,
To drink the horns of gilded mead.
To write poetry, to bleed the music of the heart.
But I must cease,
For I speak of what I know not,
What I no longer know.
A poem about feeling uninspired. Winter 2015