Bite

The gardener sprays the water wide
in an arc from side to side.
The old dog moves out of its path.
No one knows her held-in wrath

for all who hold the power but she––
the door for which she has no key,
the young dog taking power away,
as she grows weaker every day.

The universe is never kind
to those caught in the crushing grind
of power eroding day by day.
Surrender is the price we pay.

Commanding, shy, flamboyant, staid––
everyone falls to the blade.
For all, it is the price that’s paid–
by tyrant and by serving maid.

What has happened to stay my hand?
I’ve read the words both fine and grand
that other poets have been writing
and envy has commenced its biting.

What I write is merely babble.
It’s obvious I only dabble.
These words I have so easily found.
surely cannot be profound.

The gardener sprays the water wide
in an arc from side to side,
in a move so sure and quick,
quenching inspiration’s wick.

http://www.napowrimo.net/day-eleven-3/