Vortex

 Into the golden vortex

Fall talent and passion.

It pulls them from titanic desire

To desks

Where their art dies along the x-axis

Of a bar graph.

 

Somewhere within the whirlwind

Apollonian dreams and Dionysian lust

Are torn from trembling fists that,

Like baby hands looking for anything to grasp,

Hold firm to routines

And the comforts of date nights,

The familiar burn of Mexican food.

 

In the gale’s mighty warpath,

The rubble may be found

Of the statues,

Half-complete,

Where greatness once stood.

***

(Cuenca, Ecuador -- March, 2019)

It's funny how putting these poems in chronological order (more or less) almost reads like an emotional/psychological autobiography. Similar to the previous poem, this poem is an examination of my poetry dying as everything else in my life thrived. Again, I'd eventually figure it out, but at the time, I was concerned. There are some good sounds and images in this poem, but it could use a bit more substance and focus. It's also a little too whiny for me to consider including it in a collection or anything like that.