Acedia rests heavy on my tired soul. I find myself
bereft of creativity, inexplicably inserting
cesuras into my poems that never quite pick up again.
Defervescence of a poetic fever has left me wrung and
edentulous, incapable of even the softest mental meals.
Feticide occurs daily, aborting my undeveloped thoughts,
gestations unable to carry through to term.
Haplology has gone unchecked and left me wordless.
Ideas flee my untender ponderings, leaving behind only
jet moods, empty pages and a large bottle of
kirach, slipping smooth down my throat
like I still wish my pen would slip across my paper,
miraculously filling the blue lines with
new, previously unimagined thoughts.
Obtunding days fill up this dreary life,
perpetually extending into not-so-vast horizons.
Quod, I call it, my cellmates every man who ever
rusted in the dissatisfaction of wasted hours and
sullied their hands with the ink of recycled emotions,
trammeled by their own inexplicable need to
understand and be, impossibly, understood.
Veer away, you would-be poets.
Waste time not on words or the romantic idea of
xiphoid pens and the power to change the world.
Your own flowery words will appeal to you, but ultimately
Zion will be no closer than when you started.