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The poet,
Sits down,
To his poem.
The paper,
Is blank,
Because his mind,
Is blank.
He taps,
His pencil.
Slowly he gnaws,
At the eraser.
He jots down words,
He scribbles,
His thoughts.
He stops,
The writing stops.
He gets up,
He paces.
His pacing,
Is startlingly similar to,
The rhythm,
Of his poem.
He stops,
He writes,
He paces.
He looks,
At the poem.
It looks,
Back at him,
He huffs.
Taken aback,
By its challenge.
Not scared,
He does this,
All the time.
He grabs,
His thesaurus.
He mumbles,
To himself,
Almost manically,
In artistic fits.
He jots it down.
No, he says.
No, wrong again,
He erases,
He huffs,
He rambles.
His head,
Bent over,
His paper.
He sighs,
To admit,
But wait!
He knows,
He’s found,
What he,
Was looking for.
He writes,
He writes faster.
Barely able,
To keep,
His words,
He tries,
To keep up,
With his,
Flowing mind.
He writes,
He still writes.
His hand,
And pencil,
Melt into,
The words.
The flesh,
Has fallen away,
The words,
Are the only,
Thing left.
And the pencil,
Blends in,
With the paper.
His heart,
Beats out,
The rhythm.
Like the slow,
Of normal hearts.
His mind,
Molds into,
The poem,
And singly,
The poem.
But the poem.
His imagination,
Has grown into,
This poem.
Nothing else,
Nothing crowds,
His overactive,
All other,
Take the back seat.
His eyes,
Slowly wrestle,
With what,
He wants,
With what,
He sees.
They are no longer,
His eyes,
Now they
They’re readers’ eyes.
His life,
Takes on,
New meaning.
The meaning of,
The poem.
His world,
His world,
Gives the meaning,
The poem.
It’s still going,
It’s still going.
His wife walks in,
She chats away,
He barely hears her,
The poem barely hears her.
He tries to speak,
Tries to reply.
He sounds so primitive,
An animal.
Can’t speak.
Nor can they hear.
They just are.
Hours later,
He’s done,
He’s finished,
He’s won,
He’s triumphed,
He thinks.
He sits,
Still as the paper,
Before him.
With just as much,
And just as much,
The poem,
Is one,
With him,
Or is he,
One with,
The poem?
Days later,
His wife is worried,
She can’t,
Find her husband.
The last time
She saw him
Was right before
He started writing
That last poem.
His friends,
Are worried,
They miss,
The poet.
The miss,
His dramatic ways.
No one can find him,
All they see,
Is the last poem,
On the table.
The paper,
Settled comfortably,
Filled with words,
Seemingly finished.
They all agree,
It is their favorite,
Out of all the poems,
He had ever written.

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