POETIC GENESIS
The words my pen has need to write
appear at dawn or deepest night.
A brain refreshed by tranquil rest
may overcome the harshest test.
But also true, the words to keep
emerge from night’s most fitful sleep.
Immersed in laughter, words recall
the space in time that had it all.
Yet unhealed wounds remind of pain
that ache for losses to regain.
A broken mirror cuts the soul,
its shards of glass impede the goal.
As tempests brew within my storms,
they swirl until the poem forms.
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