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Call yourself a writer?

Where's the proof?

Or does it simply mean

There's not one thought

One flash of inspiration

In all this time

That might be worth recall,

If only by yourself,

When all the dross of life

Is heaped on your forgetting?

Is your life so shallow

That each hour brings you nothing;

As if, an aging sloth,

You grope from this to that,

Unconscious of the outcome,

Unaware of what has been

Or might be, just because

You acted as you did?

Meanwhile the thinking never stops;

Words whirl incessant,

Uncontrolled, irrational,

Far beyond all hope

Of pinning down

Each specimen

Before it flutters, wounded, off to die.

Brian Hick April 2013

©copyright Sally Hick 23,5,25