Uninspired

My words don’t want to leave my mind.
Like motorbiker acrobats they roll around the inside of my head,
Crystal bingo ballots holding out for an ever-secret winner number.
My words yearn for endings in magenta and yellow.
But white is the most frightening of all beginnings,
And in panic and anxiety they roll and roll and roll.
It’s snowy out there:
A white sheet of paper has covered the fields with emptiness,
And no plum buds dot the air to signal the end of winter.
I am a cocoon, lazing on the junction of two bare branches,
Concocting petals in my entrails while asleep.
I could stay like this forever.
But if a single streak of sun slithers through a crack
—Not much more is needed
To let the icy blue skies drown my pupils—
My womb shall explode in a storm of magenta and yellow
Diffusing like fireworks on the coldness of the ground.
White is the most frightening of all beginnings,
And in hopes of flying, my words roll and roll and roll.

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