This is one of the times
When inspiration has run away.
Run away without warning
Or without notice
Of when it will be back,
Without intimation of where
It is now nestled for a holiday.

I struggle to put words together
But they elude me like beads scattered off a string;
I look in corners,
I crouch under the table
Without luck, I search
But the ones that come to me
Are as good as a trenchcoat in a desert,
Or wings to a tree.

I think I must stop now
Before the lines get cornier.
After all,
Tomorrow is another day.


2 thoughts on “Mediocre

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