In the twilight the rain
is like silk threads.
Its beauty is deceptive.
Snow has piled up
like mounds of salt.
My bed is suddenly cold.
I’m unable to sleep.
All night I hear ice crack
on the roof and in the eaves.
Wind chaotically blows
the last of fall’s leaves.
The birds have long
since departed. Alone,
I reach for the light.
But I can no longer write.
Who writes poetry anyway?
Young men with
unreal dreams and old
fools like me,
with nothing left to say.
by George Freek
George Freek is a poet/playwright living in Illinois. His poems have recently appeared in ‘The Missing Slate’; ‘Torrid Literature’; ‘Bone Parade’; ‘Hamilton Stone Review’; ‘The Oklahoma Review’; ‘The Poydras Review’; and ‘The Empirical Review’. His plays are published by Playscripts, Inc.; Havescripts; Independent Playwrights; and Lazy Bee Scripts (UK).
