WORDS ARE POPPIES

The brain is a mangle, squeezing the very last drop
What was all warm and damp with creative ideas
Is now a thin flat sheet of emptiness, its duty done
Having held that heavy wet load of inspired words
That have dripped out in a puddle upon the page
Some, as if nervous in a trench, await their orders
Others scramble over the top, and make a charge
Shouting, not so much to be defiant, but be heard
And when all the reshuffling is done, stand proud
But further along the frontline, others will prepare
To swell the ranks of those who will soon be read
Sadly, those that never made it, not remembered
Somewhere they remain, just as poppies in a field