These contradictions, inhibitions,
ways to still falter,
stitches,
from days gone, not forgotten,
that color my future,
my thoughts, my ways,
are nothing
short of. Words
echo in the chambers of
my mind, but
actions are as mute
as the passing of time.

All life drained within,
only an empty shell
that follows the
automatic processes
of a man
trapped
inside.

This is not who I am.

Silent, and sad,
unwilling to forgive
myself?
or
Her memory scorches the
fabric of every muse
and thought I should
revel in.
All thoughts to ink
to paper
to you.
To her it was nothing,
as infinitesimally small
as my now
motivation to create,
to Spring forth vitality
in Winter months.

This is not me.