I’m sick of heartbreak; it’s time to move past.
But this isn’t a love poem, that’d be too fast.
I won’t be pondering heaven or hell.
So where does a recovering poet dwell.
~
Whether writers block or writer’s cramp,
a king of yore or disheveled tramp,
I’ve a reign of reams at my command.
I’ve time and space in my hand.
~
I’ve a rocket ship that’s faster than light.
I dance with spirits in the night.
I’ve helmed a ship through stormy seas,
wrestled a friend in a hive of bees.
~
I’ve felt love and feel it missed.
A new day’s today and sunshine kissed.
And though this poem has no middle or end,
it’s a blip in cyberspace, again to send.

~*~
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