If you are in fact a blank piece of paper
where are the words? Where is the flower
that snuffs out the bread, where is the
bold metaphor that calls to me
in the dark of the night, wanting to be written,
waiting to be heard? I have
not eaten the bread yet nor have I sniffed
the life out of the flower,
the beginning of a new poem, the beginning of
something that has not yet been written.
(Found this old poem, for your reading.)
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