Standing here, alone, apart
From everything I’d ever want
Is killing me slowly carving away
At my passions month after month
Hacking inspiration to pieces
As my pen freezes
A winter without the shifting of seasons
The closing of creativity’s tomb

As red flowers bloom
Just before the first frost,
Such a horrible loss
That brevity costs
Like when a child exits the womb
And begins to die
Such a limited time
One has to live
And the love one can give
And creativity’s breath
Before the ending of rhymes