my muse deserted me
leaving behind a vacuum
which grows and grows
and engulfs.
how did I frighten it away?
will it ever return?
dwelling in a vacuum
is no fun.
thoughts drift in
and drift away.
like a yo-yo
with the string snapped
i roll away
and stop in some corner
till the cleaner sweeps me off and dumps me
in the waste bin
to be trashed.
2 comments:
I couldn't help musing over your poem -and wrote a kind of poem myself! The thread and the hand and the trash bin all are ourselves, I guess.
May be all mentioned here are metaphors. But the end is a universal law, isn't it?
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