poetic particles of dust: a ballade

why I don't wait for inspiration to magically strike me down

my soul’s not strong enough for art
that’s one sure truth I can’t evade—
for when my fingers move to start
a poem, the inspirations strayed.
I’m left, so empty, so dismayed
by lack of focus, until I just
see in my glass a lonely shade:
poetic particles of dust.

the mirror shatters, fragments dart
a wreck of words, all disarrayed.
once beautiful, now blown apart,
no gauze could patch me, I’m afraid.
my ink is bleeding out. I fade
and scatter on a careless gust—
please sweep me up—a pile made
of poetic particles of dust.

lend me a staff, find me a chart,
before I’m always left unmade,
my breath, my blood, my faded heart,
against my words can yet be weighed,
and maybe something can be saved
so what is weak becomes robust
I might be more than this cascade,
these poetic particles of dust

these thoughts bring solace long delayed
by simple doubts and self disgust.
my words return, for I am made
of poetic particles of dust.

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