lost lines



as i am in bed waiting for sleep   patiently

knowing it will not come soon

i say my prayer/mantra   though it has become 


little more than superstition   thoughts drift

i compose lines   which   like dreams   

will be indistinct come morning   once upon a time 


i would have gotten up   written them down   now

i know it makes no difference   

there are always more lines   none so precious as i used to think


this poem is about the process of losing lines   not the lines themselves   

this i know   precious or not   

the lost lines were far richer for their proximity


to sleep and dream—ethereal   sublime   of the cosmos     

than this form-fitted mediocrity    






i fall asleep haunted by our eternal separation 

this line i remember 








Poetry by one trick pony The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 108 times
Written on 2021-05-09 at 02:00

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Bibek The PoetBay support member heart!
I can relate to this very much, Jim. Some days I'm too tired to write and writing feels like a mere chore: a "form-fitted mediocrity" as you've written. Losing lines feels more ethereal, more sublime. Rightly captured!