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Reflecting on a Dry Spell ©

Marc R. Sherland
Glasgow, Scotland

My voice is strangely silent like a pall,
The cord is stretched beyond its ultimate
And yearns to snap I think its only fate
That hopes to catch me when I fall or call.
Is use of words then rationed? Am I spent?
My fluids spilled as if there had been drought,
The sum of which is dim, amounts to nought,
Reams of folly, whose ink grows ever faint.
If only there were things I brought to be
That might inspire to wonder and surprise,
And stun the world by its eternity
But that is wistful humming I surmise.
Give ears to others yelling to be free,
For they write better poetry than me.

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