………………..Perhaps it was the snow
……………….blanketing all
………………refusing to melt
……………..papering pelting us blind
…………….with its swelling flakes
……………or lassitude
…………..a veil at the front door
………….wrinkled and stained
…………from filtering myriad horror
………..May be midlife crisis unrelenting
……….demanding doomsday income tax accounting
………wrenching flesh spitting
……..Or else a chrysalis
…….harbinger of tender life anew
…..in full evolution
….And what of it
…lack of talent? spent imagination?
..should we never more tap words
.on the clavier?
Forget the rot
the self mutilated finger
your amputated leg
Oh! young Rimbaud
How is it you did not mourn the poetry
tracing of the pen writing
revising upon virgin paper?
To find more poetry by Liliane Richman on this blog, click HERE.
Liliane Richman’s recently published memoir, “The Bones of Time” can be found HERE.
Bonnie McClellan-Broussard 