Sin of Imagination, #32

Chiseled into the base-boards
of the room I grew up in,
room I am quite sure by now
is a closet, down where none
would think to look, I sculpted
the only words I’ve written
that tasted real. What’s left
since the day that metal desk,
the one we just had to have,
but could find no place, no use
for, since the day it planted
itself in my room, which now
is surely a closet, words
I’ve been chasing round and round.
Beneath that monstrous desk
in the corner in the wood
are thoughts I can not recall,
the vague English of a pen
without ink, used for their point.
I assume many topics
while chasing my behind, guess
something about a woman
I love or parent I hate
or Divine force I long for.
Rest assured, it was nothing
unthought, no original
magic, nothing to strong-arm
thought, lovers or governments.
But everything I’ve done since,
from my spouse to my workplace,
each line of new poetry
makes me feel kind, and lost.



A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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