So they flee; once beautiful narratives detached from me and took off running.
For my own sake, I eventually follow and take off hunting.
Crossing the bridge to the ocean, finding no words above or beneath their pillars or the sun-setting shades on the water in motion.
Maybe I'll find the words perched on the bridge as a little black bird, who mirrored me in a way that resonated with my soul but whose tune sang not one melodic word.
I go to the ocean, and heavy waves collapsing onto beds of sand sighed no release for me, and I leave.
Home, I paint a picture and coaxed a thousand empty words out of it, that rang like broken records and sang to me deep into the night.
I awake to a blizzard, beautiful white.
A cold I felt I'd brewed with my mind
So I try and dive into a novel only to find my mind's waters shallow, and the pages became no more than ink printed paper.
I think myself incapable;
I look to the bottle, mostly white,
It sat on my nightstand by white papers that so longed for me to write.
I kick my head back and let the words pour from the bottle and back into me, loosening my grip, they could finally flow free.
