Mistakes and Regret

One thousand and one open doors,
Fifteen pages of a single verse...
Why does the ink drip so slowly
when the mind has taken off at speed?

Memories falter, no longer able to hold the weight of a million different words.

Every poem has a wading secret, drowning mistakes and regret with stanzas and titles that make no sense on their own.

What is the point if you can't unpick every rhythm and metaphor with the same intensity as it was written?

© Tara-Kay Powney 7th January 2024