Sometimes I can't find the door,
Nor that road again in the rain
The place where words come,
Naturally on a course into my brain
Sometimes all I hear is scream,
From the muted silence of thought
Or some imaginary place I've been,
While traveling lost out in the sot
No one bears summer's wrath,
Quite like a locked and drowning poet
Angst and rage and flailing in the dirt,
Looking helpless into the violet Sky
Where riddles and rhymes are lame remedies,
To a dry man from an even drier place
The Sun just bakes away my muse,
And all I'm left with is this aging face
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