Wednesday, 18 April 2018

The Writer Paused

It wasn’t always thus he says
With a benign smile of nowhereness
There once was a time, filled with enthusiasm
For each and every word

Now the openness of emptiness has closed in
The need for nothing, or at least the thought of it
Is becoming the thrust, the thrust now to follow
And so the empty rooms, and discarded railway lines

Can best mark the space for the virgin page
To make its entrance, less visible than ink
Yet more sustainable than lead, the parchment
Dies, for the irritant thoughts to be laid to rest

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