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.
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Author:
Libellule (
Offline) - Published: May 5th, 2025 12:36
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 4
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett
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Comments2
"If they ask you: What is the sign of your Father in you?, say to them: It is movement and rest."
httpp://earlychristianwritings.com/thomas/gospelthomas50.html
Again a wonderful write. How many times I have pruned from my poems lines that I would have left in but for cutting down length. Less is more they say and I believe is true. Never the less loss of many thoughts and lines lie in the dark. Love this poem and it's a fave
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