My Words Are Dead

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Where did it go? The heart that powered my fingers,

like some ruthless steam engine, clacking and clicking.

Now, the words do nothing more than linger.


Where did it go? "No, I'm writing. Another time."

Such adamant love for my craft, for my simply sublime,

my darling! No doubt, I have committed a crime.


Where did it go? The words which sprinted across the paper,

they slither hopelessly, awaiting the Grim Reaper?

No? No. I cannot be a troubled traitor,


to the words I once cherished childishly,

the words which kissed my ears so caringly:

"This is good, very good. Do not cry."


Where did it go? My mind is full of terror,

my heart is as dry as the Sahara,

my fingers fractured with fatigue,

my ears bleeding from false intrigue,

my lips fading away from the smiles,

my cries completely silent to all the isles.


The pace is gone,

the heart is gone,

the comfort is gone,

the passion is gone,

gone.

Where did it go?

For You, My Darling MelancholyWhere stories live. Discover now