Have I still rhythm in my soul?
Can I still rhyme?
Is the writer's art still a mole?
Burrowing deep within me,
Still there, yet so hard to see?
Can I still regale a reader with words?
Can I still write?
Enchant like a flock of birds?
Winging in formation through the sky?
A goodly thing to the scanning eye.
I am still of the wordsmith's ilk.
I can still weave,
A verbal web of spider's silk
Laying wait for some to fall,
Perhaps, spellbound, this poet's thrall.
Oladejo Adebola Fabolude
Copyright ©2005 Oladejo Adebola Fabolude
