They ask us to write a simple string of words and not to sing a song,
Chosen few, left struggling silent, a sense of agony prolonged,
A flickering flame to steal away the air and take inturn my soul unburned;
left bereft of spoken thought,
My fingers for me whisper fiercely,
Release in pain silent words wrought.

It is a unique form of self torture
To visit a place you once called home
And to be met with only the unknown.


This was my home.
I don't want to say goodbye again.

We have such a strange friendship,
You and I,
With You, knowing everything about me,
And Me,
struggling to find the right words to say hello.

Sometimes a haiku
Has just enough of the sounds
To tell a story.