Anywhere but here

I sit in blank,
with no wording.

Language is what’s lost.
What I need is another,
mood,
another,
state.

Perhaps, I should leave the country,
and acquire a new vocabulary.

How lovely,
to write poetry,
from a charming french cafe.

For now, this empty,
soulless,
Starbucks will
do.
The jazz like rhythm
I yearn for,
will have to come through music.
And the muse,

anywhere but here.

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