Composing what, I might ask, or not No music muse to my deaf ears Or painters brush or Lorelei among the rushes No pain or torture beckons me to speak No love, lost or not, draws blood or verse My diction is depleted, thesaurus drained dry There is no explanation needed, just a sigh The prose and poetry of romance and failure Has no comfort, no tutor, no hope or joy forthwith Just meaningless sounds broadcast to the forage. If the tree does fall or the hand clap, who will hear it? Not you, just those on which it falls or slaps As with the photograph on the wall, there is just the moment Then it will pass, and the meaning is lost Mingled with metaphors, stung with satire and sarcasm Blessed with the pleasure of another passing cloud. Let us hope it rains.
