Passing,
she stopped me,
laid her hand upon my arm,
inviting me to share a coffee with her,
and then started to tell me
of everything she hadn’t written;
looking for sympathy in my eyes
for the stillborn thoughts,
the abortive sonnets and villanelles,
that she’d never brought to fruition.
She spoke of her fallow imagination;
of how she’d even scrabbled under her Muse’s tree
in case some of the fallen fruit was still palatable,
only to find the smiling promise riddled with worms.
Finally,
she told me she’d bundled together
all the poems she’d never written,
and filed them away against the day when,
full of future second and third thoughts,
she will try to breathe new life into them.
A contest entry
- Find my muse!? by whitexrose39.
800 points, ended February 20, 16 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Comments
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Thank you
Thank you for entering my contest. It's as if you were talking about talking to me!
Good luck in the contest.
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Kaylyn
Thankyou for your comments, good wishes and applause.
Best wishes from 'down-under'.
Shenton
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Interesting. I really like lines 8-10. I can picture someone like this
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GotLilt
Thankyou for your complimentary comments, which are much appreciated, and for your very generous applause.
Best wishes from 'down-under'.
Shenton
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