take out that pen
put it to use

that one
two
eight thousand word work of art
(if it even starts)
won't write itself

it might live
as a bud in the mind
for years

but every rise and set
is back burning
a forest of poetry reduced to ash
floating

you can try
again
and again
to bring it back
the way it was

write it in a year

plant each new word
a seed
to grow a new forest
still green
wide
dense
alive
but different

no names carved deep
no path to the river

it's the same story
with no soul