like dead fish on old newspaper,
poetry takes a dive when
soul’s two faces get yanked apart.
without spirit, words turn to trash.
cheap ads for lost longing,
selling dreams like cheap booze,
echoes bouncing hollowly off walls.
without desire’s heat and body’s pulse,
lines go stiff.
just a grind of thoughts.
no heart to reach for,
no blood shaking the stillness.
soul hanging on by a fraying thread
over the abyss,
poetry,
once wild and roaring,
now lonely, yearning,
just words
waiting for the rough touch
of spirit and flesh.
© 2025 Bruno Talerico
Stafford challenge day 20/365
Desert Dweller 