Sometimes I slip, off-key
Askew into reverie.
Become slow-geared, and slothfully
Muse into space.
Unheedful and timeless, my brain
Takes sabbatical,
Twilight zone, mistily
Slowing the pace.
Thinking power back-tracks, as
Demands lose their feed-backs
Wits hibernate, sink with the same racking
Sense of sub - norm.
Then from ether assembles words
Tumbling together, in rhythmic
Profusion. I arouse to a
Poem, just being born.
Fay, What would any of us do without our muse? You penned one for all of us.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Wonderful, its good to reflect, that is how true poems are born.