Afternoon is like a blanket that wraps morning in its splay
And leaves the poet feeling like a poem slipped away
The melody of Muse is half-torture, half ecstasy
For nothing can quite satisfy the love of poetry
Perpetual indulgence is not for the faint of heart
The hunter and the hunted always one poem apart
Beware, the air is rife with that which ever vexes Thought
The fragment of a poem that can never quite be caught
© Janet Martin
Ah yes, and thus ... why I'm not a poet. :)
ReplyDeleteThus proving your are the wiser between the two of us;-))
ReplyDeleteI don't write many poems, my passion is for prose. But I have a poet's heart and it vexes me when I see or experience something wonderful and can't get it into words. A sweet kind of torture that deepens one's appreciation for the simplest of things.
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