...Where to begin?
Or perhaps, more appropriately...
...Where to pick up this thread?
With sombre plodding prose?
I was always about the flow.
But, not having done this in a while,
I find my pen as rusty as my mind.
It’s a tricky kind of wasteland;
This place where once upon a time,
Lines would flow quite quickly,
And where words were free to find.
Now mere syntax seems an issue.
Never mind metaphor,
And for God’s sakes don’t mention rhyme!
What good is phonetic pyrotechnics
Without meter, without meaning...
Without a thing about which to write?
So to gaze once more upon this tapered tapestry,
And to count the unfinished threads,
Is to search beyond a self-made doubt,
To find the words that still need to be said.
So that hopefully the silence will be broken,
And my pen wont gather dust.
And the discordant echoes of just-before-sleep
Will be silent!
So that I can rest.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.