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Updated on March 15, 2011





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.


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