A dumb hybrid of this Writers Write prompt using a poetic form called the Abhanga
Title: Page Twenty-Five
WC: 52
“. . . way to the door, trying . . .”
Charged by the word, you write
haltingly of insight.
Struck dumb, you leave.
“ . . . set on this path, stumbling . . .”
A gash splits the spring sky.
One lonesome, scalded cry.
Left here, I fade.
“ . . . lost to the good, aching . . .”
No unplanned poetry
makes its apologies.
At last, it ends.