I Quit Writing

No one to write to,
taking up pottery.

Fingers in clay mud
remind me of you,
quit pottery.

Taking up archery,
target looks like
a sense of direction,
no more bows and arrows.

Gone scuba diving,
but then the vaste oceans
were just too dry
for my tastes,
hung up my fins.

Took up cooking,
ate nothing but peppers,
but nothing was hot enough.

Back to poetry,
Dear Soul,
I miss you...
nothing else matters.

runningturtle87