When it don’t come easy

 

Proof of life

 

I’m a poor poet, you say

And I must agree

I’m poor in more ways than one

Impoverished in my talents

And my pocket

Should I choose to be morose over this

When there is so much music in words?

So much that can be sensed

Felt

If not quite

Expressed

It’s enough to keep me on the trail

Of that perfect, fleeting moment

That singular combination

Of words and cadence

Which might prove

Beyond doubt

That I

Exist.

 

 

 

Words are my own.

©2017

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