dust off the
cob-webs-clinging
to the corners
sweep away
the dust from
the metaphorical
type-writer –
try to write
for the first
time in ages
and have
nothing
to say –
cloudy mess
up there,
ghosts of
half-
-written
poems stagger
blankly
across the room –
academia’s grip
clenched tight
around the throat
too long,
no air left.
tumbleweeds trip
through the
blank space
where words
used to live
there are no
rhymes here.
did you forget
how to spin words
how to craft rhythm
how to run
with bare feet
through the
tall grass –
words used to
flow through
your veins
like the wind
through the
trees –
now two stanzas
feel like a lifetime.
turn off the light
we have no use
for it here,
board up the windows,
dismantle the dreams
left inside
erect a tombstone
in the center square,
here lies the poet’s
last words
she has nothing
left to give.