lightening runs down my being
hair waking up from a deep slumber
and my skin strangely alive
I shiver with a lovely rhythm
the way clouds do on cold, dry days
tongue moving mutely, my lips emit words
as empty as crumbled up papers themselves
a drizzle, cut, perhaps some windy sprinkle
cut, sunshine, cut, pour, cut, gusts, cut
dry, still, silent air; she whispers to me
I freeze to the sky, eyes stuck over a void
no verses, no words, not even a sigh
I melt to ground, as silent as the moon itself,
but moon needs no words to write poetry
I do, my silence isn't euphony, I don't emit hope
words don't bow themselves before me
I do before them, none of me matters
I'm just my words. I am an old parchment
that was too full to be filled with words.
I roam around with the wind, stepped on by birds.
gone on unwritten, unheard, unseen
lightening running down my body
I tremble, still as stone, empty as a corpse.
I can't come up with poetry tonight--