one hundred : write when it strikes (it won’t strike twice)
take out that pen
put it to use
that one
two
eight thousand word work of art
(if it even starts)
won’t write itself
it might live
as a bud in the mind
for years
but every rise and set
is back burning
a forest of poetry reduced to ash
floating
you can try
again
and again
to bring it back
the way it was
write it in a year
plant each new word
a seed
to grow a new forest
still green
wide
dense
alive
but different
no names carved deep
no path to the river
it’s the same story
with no soul
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