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.
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.
