Empty As A Reed Flute


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.