I’m all out of color -
the dim light fills my room,
casting shadows of a waning heart
across my cloud gray walls.
I can’t remember what it feels like
to eat from my heart
and drink from my soul -
what it feels like
to hold the weight of the world
in my palms.
My memories are painted
in colors I can’t quite recall,
my words sung in a melody
I can’t quite capture.
What’s left of me lies
inside these four walls,
complacent in my capture.

The ashes are here to replace  
the raged fire,
once ignited by a thousand wishes
upon a thousand stars.
A heart in flames
at the drop of a dream,
a soul woken up
by hope’s scorching heat -
the waning daylight to burn holes
through the blanket
wrapped around my skin.
Upon its final declaration
comes the dark side of the moon,
now complete in its desolation
in the absence of a single flame.

All words cease
without a fire to rage upon,
colors to dance upon
or a choir to sing upon.
They don’t play well
with the stifled monotony
of the silver and gray -
the sullen song of the defeated,
the burnt ashes of an ember.
The written words
of a forgotten language
rot on the page,
stolen from a source
that no longer dreams.

My soul was robbed from my flesh,
taken home on a star;
with no dream to call my own,
I can wander near and far.
Hope torn from my heart
to land at someone else’s door,
but with no road to lead home,
I no longer wish to explore.

My words turn me inside out
and rip my heart across the seams -
they dance along my tattered soul
and tear a hole in all my dreams.
They shred my healed wounds open
and leave me rotting in the cold -
my soul is raging with the same light
that’ll keep me from growing old.

My words have turned rotten
under the weight of a dream,
every wish being forgotten,
every hope split down the seam.
They feed me honey on a spoon
so I can shoulder the stars,
but it’s too late for salvation -
they’ve already littered me with scars.

The beating heart of my song
is silenced by the static
inside my four lonely walls.
The words rot and wilt
in the absence of a dream,
and the whisper of the rain outside
is the closest thing I have to a choir.
I need the wind to be my pen,
and the sun to be my muse -
the grass to be my paper,
and the moon to be my audience.
How long must I go on
without words to line my soul?