Poetry Train: Last summer was a cemetery

Last summer
was a cemetery
for poems
that were never born.

Small sperms
of ideas
swam toward
blank eggs
then died.

Long, lazy days
stretched out before
me like miles
of sandy beach

but no waves
of words
begged to live
and all those poems
that could have been,
seeped into the sand
leaving behind
bubbles
of empty foam.