My fingers ache
to write lines
and stanzas
and sonnets,
but my brain is too tired
for apt words
or couplets that collect meaning
like kids gathering candy.
My heart has dried up
like a grape in the sun
and my wrinkles are finally showing.
My mind races
and chases
a contagious
to a love
that was lost
in the fire
of strangled,
unbidden desire.
I hold on,
fingers clinging,
ears ringing
with adrenaline
caused by a loss,
a lost cause
in the grand scheme
we call life
and I am empty
of words
or at least my fingers
hold them prisoner
because my mind is vast,
a wasteland
of the words
trying to be last
on my lips
when I finally
come face to face
with the ghosts
of my unwritten past.


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