Sometimes I wonder what else I should write.
Where are the mines I’ve not tapped into, bright
with diamonds? Are they far too deep to chip
with chisel? Ready, hand upon the grip,
I go spelunking in the cave of words,
hoping to find them plentiful as herds
of cattle on a hillside. In the dark
my eyes adjust. This place, austere and stark,
fills me with mystery, a kind of dread:
Do I possess ingredients for bread
that satisfies? Do my words hit the mark…
or are they swallowed by my muse’s shark?