Winter’s Poem

Winter’s Poem prose poem

Photo by enki22

I sit by my window every morning,
Wanting, willing to write a poem.
The pen in my hand yearns to touch the blank paper,
Like a lover yearns to touch the beloved.
The paper breathes patiently,
The warm sun brushes through it,
The winter breeze moves around with a chuckle
Few emotions, ideas and thoughts had almost
Packed their bags to leave me
To be free, to be far, to forever be distant.
But I instead held them back
Kept them captive, kept them closed inside.
Unhappy and angry they cried,
The emotions, ideas and thoughts.
“For a poem will not be born if you hold us captive.”
Some days are like that I said
You wish to leave and you can’t
You wish to be free and you can’t
You wish to create and you can’t
You wish to forever be distant and you can’t
They listen to me patiently
The pen looks at the paper yearningly
The sun moves above brightly
The shades over my window changes from
Blue to red to yellow to bright yellow to
Orange to pink to blue and then to black.
I lie restless on my bed
With a poem waiting to be born
With emotions, ideas and thoughts
Protesting to not sleep
Eventually the room becomes cold
And me, my emotions, ideas and thoughts
Shiver inside the blanket and then
Tired and unaware
I sleep, they sleep and
The poem inside escapes through me and becomes a dream
And eventually perishes
Silently on a cold winter night
Unable to be born
A poem dies.

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