In the twilight the rain

is like silk threads.

Its beauty is deceptive.

Snow has piled up

like mounds of salt.

My bed is suddenly cold.

I’m unable to sleep.

All night I hear ice crack

on the roof and in the eaves.

Wind chaotically blows

the last of fall’s leaves.

The birds have long

since departed. Alone,

I reach for the light.

But I can no longer write.

Who writes poetry anyway?

Young men with

unreal dreams and old

fools like me,

with nothing left to say.

 

by George Freek

 

 

George Freek is a poet/playwright living in Illinois. His poems have recently appeared in ‘The Missing Slate’; ‘Torrid Literature’; ‘Bone Parade’; ‘Hamilton Stone Review’; ‘The Oklahoma Review’; ‘The Poydras Review’; and ‘The Empirical Review’. His plays are published by Playscripts, Inc.; Havescripts; Independent Playwrights; and Lazy Bee Scripts (UK).

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