How, then, am I to face
some honest way not to erase
the ink I’ve spilled before—
this enduring poetry I do implore.
Lines I once dared write
no longer rise to delight;
they drown in this bitter ink,
too heavy now not to sink.
They find no safe home
within any crafted poem—
each line I try tonight
lost in a starless night.
Perhaps I win an unwinnable war
by writing less, not more—
just feelings, plain, unplanned,
as elusive as sifting sand.
In all I failed to find,
what’s left out, left behind—
fades into a prosaic frost,
as if by design, as all is lost.