*

With my stomach wound as tight as a clockwork toy,
I contemplate the paperweight
of unwritten lines which I bemoan.

There’s a weevil in a crop of creativity I am yet to harvest
- flies in my poetic soup -
annelids consuming unpublished tomes.

A mote in my minds eye; magnetised to virgin pulp,
forms raped seed wheat germs of ideas
I farm perchance to boast.

Like all would-be bards I aspire to be thoroughly read;
though not yet a thoroughbred,
glad to be past the first post.


*