Just Words
This is what it's like to be a dry well. Either nursing on shadows or drawn in the dust--from either position life appears an impossibility. A ship that sank before it sailed. A bundle of nothing set loose amongst voids that say to themselves, "We are boundless space."
To be a pen spent of all ink. Without anything but words, a mouth without speech. Eyes that see but cannot say. A heart that beats blood blindly for nerves all gone to numb.
To be a leaf lingering in the winter wind. To be a sheet of paper wet with rain and all punched through--or a thin film of wax wrapped taut around a trumpet's bell. Ready for the blowout any time.
It is already happened. So, let it come. Let it come. Oh, let it just come and undo me home.