The husk of a torn coccoon
hanging in a chill October wind,
muse lying with tattered wings
in a bramble of briar patch.

The eye sockets of a skull
gazing into pitch black,
never noting the silk
that surrounds it.

The only poetry
that remains
are the rattling
of the bones,
as they tumble
into an unsyncopated
pattern forevermore.

A guitar without strings,
a piano less the velvet hammers,
a skinless drum.

The empty pockets of a hobo,
sleeping off two dollar wine
in the cobwebs of a boxcar,
going nowhere.

Such is a poet
without inspiration,
the lagging energy
of mental blocks,
tumbling like dice,
only to crap out.

More by this Author

  • Darkness Calls Me Out And Bids Me Go.

      Darkness Calls Me Out.   Darkness calls me out, and bids me go into the humid, star-filled ink of night my slippers scritch- scraping cross the deck slapping time to the song of the crickets as moths...

  • Eulogy For A Lost Cause.

    In the heat of the moment when life's at dire risk, one does not see the humanity of the enemy, one only sees the murderous intent. Only later if the opportunity arises can one sit and ponder it.

  • A Trio Of Short Thoughts.

    A trio of short thoughts. 1.- Regret 2.- Friday night on the road. 3.- Love is...... ©-MFB III Regret is an Egret standing on one leg always wondering if it should have used two till the wave of an...


No comments yet.

    Sign in or sign up and post using a HubPages Network account.

    0 of 8192 characters used
    Post Comment

    No HTML is allowed in comments, but URLs will be hyperlinked. Comments are not for promoting your articles or other sites.

    MFB III profile image

    MFB III229 Followers
    1,582 Articles

    Click to Rate This Article