March's picture, The Lost Correspondent by Jason de Cairs Taylor.
Silent as if I too were a blank page
still for so long I might as well
have turned to stone with
moss creeping along my
unmoved arm
untouched pen
paper brittling, yellowing
synapses rusting shut
Nothing fires down here
you could have heard me
drown if I had thought to scream
exhaled the deep, that final gasp
words don’t come words don't fill
a mouth a page
cling heavy to an empty echo
these keys, they unlock language
and they create
everything
yet I stare still at them
unable to turn them to any
true use.
bdr
This poem is like the snake eating it's own tail. This poem is the moment before this poem!
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