of this i cannot speak
the long days alone
at my tattered plywood desk
seeking words   seeking relief
seeking absolvement
a soul long past confession
any noticeable color
washed out by age

of this i cannot speak
dream of all
i once could dream of
when a song
and a glance
could enchant an enchantress.
over last night's leftovers
my right hand reaches down
to grasp
what my mind will not
that time and place has passed

of this i cannot speak**
most days
there is thankfulness
for what i have
and a shrug
for what i have no longer
days like these
gratitude is a formality
given an abrupt nod
and dismissed