Keeper Of The Flame
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I don't want to write a word, don't want to be heard.
I might as well put them in a bucket, stir them around,
Then string them together into something absurd,
As I pour the unused ones onto the fertile ground.


Maybe the birds will gather the last of the words
To take to their nest where they can rest for a spell.
The ranchers can feed what's left to their herds,
Ones with especially good flavor, those he can sell.

Pour on the color of rhymes both bright ones or dim.
Add the hue of a saying or two, try a semblance of a plan.
If enough poets in enough rooms fill their cups to the brim,
An original thought may percolate. At least, I think it can.


I don't want to write a word. Don't want to be heard.
I'm getting tired of cutesy stuff. It's all a lot of fluff.
Stir the pot one more time. I'll do my best to make a rhyme,
But please, I can no longer see the forest for the trees.
All my words are wilting as if they have some disease.

So I am asking, no, I am begging you, please find a word
Or a sentence for me that doesn't sound too absurd,
'Cause the word road is cluttered with characters rough,
And I need the opportunity to have a little bit of time
To do something, anything, that requires no rhyme,
I can put it quite succinctly, I believe I've had enough!!


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