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It comes to a point
when you can’t fed it
anymore,
when old passions
and new dreams
are the same,
and there’s nothing inside
but routine
and loneliness.
When old poems
stare and echo
like ghosts in the mirror
and dead people
in photographs.
And you try and try,
but all you have
to write about
is the ghostly presence
of a vague feeling
once felt,
and you can’t feel it
anymore.
- jean jones
