Poetry Collection.

Prose Poem IX

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      I speak for the first time, yet you do not listen.
      I have spoken, by now, for the tenth time a novel, yet still you do not listen. I do not know how to force you to listen.
      Is it the words, or the voice? The will, or the lack thereof?
      I speak to you and myself, and a steady wind takes them out into the rolling fields of barley, where they shower upon the golden stalks as acid. But they were never dangerous—no, I chose them carefully, arranged them meticulously across the page, ensured the perfection of their print. Yet now they wrinkle and stain. Was it itself, or the voice, or the ink that turned sour in its stagnant plea?
      Why do you not listen? What am I doing wrong?

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(July 9th, 2024.)