Wingless

closed; no poetry today,
the poet is too sick and sad
and the universe is making 
her head spin 
unless of course the dizziness 
is a direct result of looking too long
at the spinning globe of future problems

closed; can’t create today,
thought too much about how 
useless a talent this is in the long run, 
thought about the people she loved
who died because they found themselves
useless in the long run,
thought about
joining them

closed; no words today,
a bright light suffocated
by the bleak wingless bird in her ribs but
everyone knows sad poets who can’t write
are more romantic than happy poets who have
nothing sad to write about
and what is there to say except that you 
understand hollow trees and forgive them when they 
quit standing 
but when you’re happy what is there to say except
you remember why you kept breathing

closed; nobody home today
and the poet wasn’t even that 
good
anyway.

inkskinned

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