On this blank page, as my fingers move
They make indentations in each groove
Sowing seeds between each line.
At first there are many muddled thoughts
Some, at this time will come to naught
At a future date, they will be resurrected.
In the future into poems injected
Sewn into the fabric of a page
Perhaps give comfort, even outrage.
They, like the writer will never know their fate
Until the writer sits down to relate
Then, with a sudden sharp jab of pen on page
A stage is set, a page is printed
The dark recess of the mind spilled out
A reason always to enter the darkness of the poetic mind.
(c) Chris Black. August 2018
~The Poet’s Poet~
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