i christen these pages anew
with words i can only pray haven't
crossed paths before.
but perhaps it's a lost cause
all the star-crossed poets are cursed
to always find
their lives mirrored on paper,
or simply in a passing thought
they may never find again.
it's the way of the world
but it's also the way they've chosen
so pity is, unfortunately, scarce.
and we twirl around to an end,
whereupon the result is praised and collected
or it becomes the newest resident
of the ever-feared and over-filled
when the muse is gone,
whether vanished or lost,
it's either a fresh vantage point
sometimes it's trial and error
and others it spills from the pen
flowing from heart to hand
like charismatic ink with a mind of its own.
then it's over
and it's another extension of the soul
that somehow escaped to the
where it's left for ready eyes
or else left for dead.