Seed

The seed will not rear its pretty head,
It slips into poems I haven’t read
Though well-watered and amply fed
The soil’s warmth’s its fatal bed.

What is this seed
That will not sprout?
Up with you and out
Rise with the sun
And shun objectless lust
And writhe out from the settled dust.

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2 thoughts on “Seed

  1. This is so beautifully crafted.

    “the soil’s warmth’s its fatal bed.” – I identify with this – too much comfort/contentment is fatal for my poetic endeavours 🙂

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