What would we do if the poems ran out

our energy supplies cut off?

 

How would we explain that away

without the words and what they convey?

 

Like the blind we'd have to evolve

with only the touchrod of insight to solve

 

those infinite days and their challenging ways

 

to stumble over imponderable matters

and stare at statues

or bleakly at sunsets

devoid of the muse and the songs of praise?