I am approaching the threshold of my grief That dismal dawn where words break – Fast over stale feelings Like waves on a rock-ridden shore. This stilled tongue tunes no trills for sorrow, Sigh-chapped lips, no plosive feasts But my ragged pen thirsts For consonants, vowels Forming words, eyes closed, Half-asleep, I drift, Tossed upon the foam As one who drowns for air And breathes only memory.
It has been a quiet week
With the tongue still in my mouth
As though words had simply left me
I wait, patient, resigned, for their return
They tell me it could be weeks
Another two, perhaps will pass
Before I can taste the letters
In their shades of coolest blue
And burning crimson
I cannot let myself slip
Tripping into watery terror
They will return, they must
We are lost alone
The thread of thought broken,
shattered, smashed – irrevocably,
by the brief period of silence.
No breakthrough, no linear quality.
No quality at all.
Words – suspended, then fallen.
Dropped down to Earth like decayed teeth.