Assuming I possess only a finite amount of words
And a force is necessary to overcome the friction
Of existence, perhaps I might infer
Most logically from the recently discovered
Migratory pattern: if creativity was a bird
It had left me for the season and I am mute,
Wordless and flightless and absurd.
But!
This is no cause for concern
With the reassuring hypothesis that I have
Merely depleted the energy necessary for articulation
In the endeavour towards becoming more sociable.
One cannot fund both eloquence and extroversion
From the same language. I have bankrupted
Myself talking too much. How difficult it is to return
To contemplation when the fields of communication
Have already been harvested by my greedy hands.
It is now time to rest the lands and hibernate alone.
Perhaps then, at spring time I might find the poems flowing through the banks again and bring soft joys to my exhausted mind.
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