Lonely, perhaps.

I wonder what it is

That brings me to write -

Nothing of consequence

In my beloved green ink.

A box of torn paper,

Nothing captures it.

Losing my grip on words.

Maybe I’ll find it in running,

Running away from things.

And so I stop,

But the words don’t come.

I’ve lost my abilities,

I can’t fly anymore.

A dragonfly, so dangerous –

But for the wings ripped out,

And the feet unable to walk.