Sometimes words are elusive, and frustration rules.
My words cry out,
Birth pangs of imagination,
Drying like a mud-crust
Round a waterhole,
Stamped on by the wild beasts of
The imperative,
Hungry for the water of life.
Their life,
Not my life.
The mud-crust dries, crumbles
And is carried away
On the winds of forgetfulness.
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