He refused to panic.

Crying salty tears

As though he had a cistern

Inside his head

Arriving at his writing bureaux

Discovered a closed for business sign


Sitting himself down

He could only stare blankly.


Uncharted territory

Became a fresh challenge

With his desk out of bounds

He had to harvest elsewhere

He was born to be here.


Moving to his left side

Placing his hand on his bible

Albeit a dictionary

Emitted these words

Lord, you never close one door

But you open another.

Thank you for these words

For without them

This poem would never have been formed.


(c) Chris Black. August 2018

~The Poet’s Poet~