A seedling of another poem,
planted in the womb
of all wombs
the heart,
where a throbbing
infant idea looms
begging to be born.

And the host carries it around
for days on end
nurturing it, parenting it
waiting for it to ascend
to the almighty brain.

But once there it weakens.
and the embryo, without a sound
to breathe it back to life,
goes spiraling in dead silence, down
his creator's empty page.

Burdened by the weight of it
the poet bears the blame,
the idea now is stillborn
so the poet fires his brain.