NEPHART.COM

My poem is in a coma,

not dead.

I hope it soon gets discharged

from my mind’s bed.

Then we’ll go for a walk

along the seashore,

watch the tides come and go

and argue no more.

I would have said

it looked best in its natural state,

it might feel betrayed

to be trimmed, reshaped.

Maybe my emotions leaked,

spilled too quick,

I don’t know what fever

it happened to pick.

But I am sure

something went wrong,

my poem was silenced

mid-thought, mid-song.

I try to revive it,

restore its form,

but this quiet coma

feels like the norm.

Oh poem, wake up,

don’t drift too far,

we still have a life

exactly as we are.