Just Wasn't

One day the famed
poet just wasn't.
Though I looked for him
I could no longer see
his words.

One day, the words just
stopped, not even dropping
to a lull or murmur.

Just cessa.

Where do the words
and ideas go? Where
do the metaphors travel?

Are they dipped upon
by the earth, drawn
sweetly into the sky,
washing away stain
when it rains?

What happens to the
ink that stops moving
across pages? Does
it grow lonely and void

or wait for the next
poet and the next poet
and the next to pick
it up?

 

Tennessee

I am a writer and teacher. Visit my new blog, dehartreadingandlitresources.blogspot.com, where I feature reviews and interviews with writers.