Crisis

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Crisis

Another poem is needed
for Wednesday night.
Our writers group cries out
to me in this desert place.

But I’ve nothing to offer,
my metaphorical tank has
run dry, there’s no more meat
on the bone, a breath
of words but only that
– a shallow gasp.

I need to get plugged in,
turn my right brain on.
Delve into some deep
ocean of inspiration, lost
under the icy
Antarctic shelf
of hard cold logic.

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