My once mighty muse has grown tired.
I thought it would die when I expired
but my calculations are off.
I scoff at those who scoff
at the multitude of words I’ve proffered
for I have offered my best.
All the rest have crept in on those coat tails.

It never fails, each draft written in this craft
can either catch fire with the desire of their intent,
or fizzle in a drizzle of malcontent.
I always thought I was meant to rhyme,
but there are times I wonder if this spell I’m under
is more curse than blessing. Am I messing with
some Grand Plan of the Man, or just diddling with my destiny?

The best of me goes into each line, a fine unnatural balance.
For in the valance of poetics, there are always heretics
who confound on some bits of doggerel I’ve found that
thrill me. Maybe I should get out before it kills me?
But then, I get this nudge and I budge from my stance
and begin this sordid dance with words. It sounds absurd,
but these words are deep. And miles to go before I sleep!

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik, 2015



2 thoughts on “A FROSTED FLAKE

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