I just received a piece of writing advice: “You can’t think your way out of a writing problem, you need to write your way out of a thinking problem.” Herewith submitted for your approval the poem that resulted from that advice.
The clock ticks.
Counting away
the seconds
Till the end
of me
and
my infernal
plans.
In the blink
of my lonely eye
there exists
a momentary
scintilla of
the absolut essence
of my dreams.
The Stygian depths
of my dreams
Go unplumbed,
Unrevealed,
Unwept,
Unsung,
by even me.
For to reveal
to unmask
the real me
would be to
expose
that gaping wound
that is the very
essential
me.
Copyright 2013, Lyle T. Lachmuth, All Rights Reserved
