Silence resounds, quiet sounds
never heard, lines blurred,
fine lines are absurd when less bold.
Cluttered desk reflecting
the jumble of his mind and muse,
(no muse is good muse)
words he chooses
lose their meanings,
demeaning his art
starting with any rhyme.
Time stands, still you
feel history repeats itself,
shelves full of books and periodicals
are illogical when left alone.
At home in a room for one
who writes what hearts express.
All the best from the poet in the big chair
who dares write such bizarre things!
Fingers flying to tie
loose ends, “friends” with
the likes of Whitman and Neruda,
and other poetic dudes who
he dares to mimic. His internally rhyming
gimmick, his saving grace.
Saving face by living to write another day.
Placard stands on his desk that says,
“The Poet is Way In, Man!”
© Walter J Wojtanik – 2016