Thursday, February 22, 2007

Sick Poem

A slurry several days:
cancelled plans
hot showers to clear my head
and soup to ease
the sickness.

How could anything flow
when time
crawls
and lying in bed
is the common denominator
of the days?

Was I ever creative?
Did I ever have anything to say?
Will words ever leap forward
from my mind again?
My muse drools
and drifts, frozen
like the deep cold snow.

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