When poets don’t write because they can’t
They just shrivel up like a lightless plant
It is just like a prison, where they’re quartering
It is just like a pile of dust, without watering
Each poem still swims all around the brain
But will any of them find its release again?
So because they can’t the poet begins to write
Just like a moth that craves the light
And with that light the plant is filled
As the seed is sown the page is willed
It is just like the cycle of the eternal sun
In a silent orbit the poet’s web is spun