Unwritten Words
It doesn't come as easily,
not anymore —
neither poetry nor prose,
the words seem to vanish
in innumerable strikes and backspaces,
eternally struck somewhere within me.
An iron fist hangs over my head
silently screaming imminent torture,
always hovering,
never bearing down on me,
but its wrath evident
from the shivers in my soul.
My mind is slipping off the rails,
my heart is shrouded in a winter fog.
If the words are going away,
where to and where from?
Are they flying away to oblivion?
Are my words held captive
in my tormenter — the iron fist,
or perhaps in the depths of my mind?
I reach out and grab it,
my hand encloses in a fist,
it's a crumpled sheet of paper,
as empty as my mind.
The sky doesn't inspire me anymore,
nor does the gutka stains on walls,
the silhouette of a withered tree
on an abandoned car
doesn't stir words within me,
the hum of an age-old air conditioner
is just that and nothing more,
not a metaphor for sadness.
Where hide the fancy adjectives,
metaphors and oxymorons?
I reassure my tired soul
with exaggerated kindness,
it sighs at times
in the middle of the night.
There is a purpose to this desperation,
to this endless meandering,
a primordial instinct
hidden deep within me,
egging me on
in this incessant search.
Lost words
waiting patiently
to be found and cherished,
cradled with affection,
and filled up with love.
These words will give purpose,
to itself and to me.
It will turn up eventually,
in the town of Norfolk,
where lost things are found.
I'll keep looking meanwhile,
inside and out.
