Treasure Lost

poetry lost to procrastination

For the coin of minutes
I sold, as slave, my muse.

My senses seduced by
the glint of delay,
a gentle jingle of
instants touching
back to back.
Inspiration rendered lax
and much to willing
to accept the bribe
of fleeting numbness
in exchange for art,
now extinct.

Such frenzied greed...
For what?
Moments idling brain-dead
on the couch, or
napkins spared for lists
and not for verse?

Now hours later-
         Fools' gold spent.
Poorer than had I
surrendered vaults of time
to jot down lines,
and kept true poetic treasure.