A Wasteland of Words

Personal (Hope)

My muse rests
at the watering hole
waiting for me
to fill her with my tears.

And off yonder
are the grasslands
where I graze
like an antelope
until the words pounce.

They scatter like tumbleweeds,
spreading like seeds
in a desert.

I gather them together,
stringing them
like a braid of hay:

a rope of poetry
that I hang onto.

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