Masterpiece

March 16, 2014

I was a great poet, once.

I blinked--black, white,

and suddenly, a masterpiece.

It required little time and no effort.

I don't know what happened to me,

but when I open my eyes,

the page is still white.

I don't know what it is, but

something inside me is dying.

Drying up like a rose at the end

of a Colorado springtime.

It is pitiful to watch.

It is agonizing to feel this helplessness,

but I cannot stop it.

I used to say that an artist

places a piece of himself

in every work.

Perhaps I have simply placed all the pieces.

Perhaps the puzzle is complete,

and I have nothing left to give.