Stillborn

the poetry waits patiently

comfortable, dormant,

living rent-free lying low,

happy inert, biding its time,

just waiting for me,

once I light the fuse

the words act like captives

burning to be set free,

writhing violently against me

release is their one desire,

angered if I were to hold on

to them too long,

so, I grant them freedom

to shout out loud, to explain

themselves, fulfil their true

meaning, to fly, bask in good air,

but alas, they fall limply at

my feet exhausted by the

fatigue of their own creation

Published by grahamrsherwood