A few sparks, scattered across space don’t make a fire.
Jumbled words don’t make a poem.
Poetry doesn’t flow from my fingers the way it used to,
Instead it sputters out in uneven bursts,
Explosions of words that don’t make sense,
Torn between a raging wildfire and a dimly-lit candle,
Unbalanced, teetering, ready to burst into flames.
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