Unfinished fragments hardly merit titles,
“Artifacts and Artifice” might fit,
but who needs it?

A day spent musing through the viscera
of existence could be better spent,
Even dozing and dreaming makes more sense.

After an hour of reading
‘how to and when’
my muse has died,

If not dead, then barely breathing
and definitely hiding,
Silt settles over my notebook.

I found this poem
in a pile of soggy leaves,
seems Sycamores never finish the story.

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