|
afflicted with the burgeoning words
can fail to flow, into fluid form
how simply cruel to be so kind
and leave them lost and unwritten
absenteeism guardianship of prose
which remains locked in a head
and will forthwith be forgotten
when air takes it's place within
it is a curse to feel this pull
to want it's release and be so held
bound without being able to create
now, this semblance of words, too late.
|