Unsure attributions and collected small plagiarisms
pepper my musings more often these days,
poorly ordered and tied in such an un-gordian knot
children of this modern Babylon can undue it,
threadbare and banal along its unneeded length.
Fresh inspiration has gone exploring elsewhere,
trite edges its way between adjectives
worn from repetition, struggling to describe.
Cliché waltzes in with its white Stetson hat,
sometimes grammar is asleep in her chair.
Original stands on the road with its thumb out
as clever drives by without noticing.