Else obsessional I’d be found here still

As I spell, by semiotics drained
I wonder if I’m wrong to write, explain
The rose unread, the apple not yet born
A poet reveals her mind, which draws down storms

Better be a scientist than a poet
Negative, uncertain, when she wrote
A lab with nuclei all dead and still
The world has ended, death by overkill

Not I but someone in me seems to choose
What I write of, what I might well leave
Else obsessional I’d be found here still
Having lost the power of choice and will.

Can we trust the silence and the voice?
Humbly, we must kneel before this choice

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About Kate Thwaite

I love writing , conversation, art, wild flowers, music and air.And books
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