The poet stares at the blank sheet of paper
looking like a soldier,
with his eyes glazed over and fixed
in a thousand-yard stare
The sweat drips from his knotted brow and
leaves stains on what once was emptiness
His hands have tightened into clenched fists
and his breath seems labored and stale
How many hours, how many days
has he been sitting there waiting?
Waiting for an idea, waiting for something,
anything, to commit to the page
To the poet, the concept of time
has lost all meaning
To him, the sweep of the second hand
might well take centuries
He wonders if he can feel his own
blood slowing as it moves through his veins
and as his thoughts become more random
and fractured
His bones stiffen but he can’t feel the ache,
his eyes close and the brightness of the blank page
is replaced by nothing but silence and darkness
and he does not go to the light
He feels nothing when he is discovered
slumped over his desk
his skin mottled and blue in places
where his life’s blood has settled
He feels nothing when he is first dissected
and then later lowered into the ground.
The dirt that surrounds him is neither hot nor cold,
it remains just dirt
Upon discovering the poet,
the worm feels nothing but instinct and hunger
and the need to exist is stronger
than that of the need to die
The worm remains by the poet's side
and is reluctant to leave his prize
He creates another generation of worms that will do the same
to another generations of poets that are sure to come.