Here i sit, a linguist, but have naught to say
Like the tobacco in my pipe, words fade
And my mind empties, like the smoke i exhale
Always, before now, I've had a thought
A feeling
A muse
Ideas
Wants
Desires
Goals
Dreams
I have now a bowl of ash
In my hand
And heart
To want to write, yet still
Words hang like lifted smoke
Loosely floating until
They fade again......
Have i naught to write?
Have i not the mind?
Like spent snuff, burnt
And crisped to ash,
Or merely strained to tight to breathe and grow?
Poetry or prose,
I sit like fire spent
Ash-buried coals
Nothing writ.