Empty As A Reed Flute

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You ask me why I no longer write..

How do I write

when I have lost my ability to feel

lost my ability to bleed

to cry

How can I write
when the fountain has run dry

and the inkwell sits secluded.
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How can I write
when all I can do is sit and stare
at a mirror of

all that I am incapable of
in love,

laying an offering at the altar of forgiveness
trying so hard to clean up this mess
of my life.


Of what do I write
when the slate is wiped clean
and the words no longer form.

Of whom do I write
when they all appear like mirages,
smoky images with ghost-like visages.

 ∴

Empty as a reed flute I remain
patiently awaiting the breath of fire.

There is a distant song of longing —
I ache to listen through the mire.

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Reaching Flames

 


We humans were made to be commanded by our hearts;
this shell we haul around was a consequence,
a cloak to hide among others.

True love is to remain hidden
in the mysterious combustible chambers of the heart,
it’s fire casting light through the eyes.

This is how we recognize love –
by the depth of the hidden fire,
and the length of the reaching flames.

http://phosphorimental.com/

fire