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 *****, 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.