no fertility of imagination,
no quest to ride upon.
Gone are the flowing shrub of words
that coloured the winding path
upon which poets tread.
Left behind the words dissolve
and the metre melts away.
Maybe some day in the future
this pen will write again,
but until that day comes along,
this is a requiem for a poet.
and so long to all his friends.
19 February 2011
Author’s Note:
Before anyone thinks that I am giving up writing or I am in a writer’s block. This is just a poem as I am neither giving up or in a writer’s block..
DVH