>> Mar 1, 2015
The cobwebs and the dusts
have made their fragile colony.
The first letter is always special.
Sabbatical has ended after countless summers.
Shaky hand holds the pen,
writes and strikes.
Cigarettes burn. Wasted smokes dance
around dim lit lights.
White papers are to poets,
what love is to a tree.
It secretly wishes,
someday it would bend its arms and hold
the one she loves.
It would confess for forgotten springs.
But winters come and wrinkled papers stack.
Night trespasses and leaves.
The dawn comes,
What was the yield?
A poet wrote about how poets fall.