The Words that Fail

The writer’s gift

is a curse in tender guise.

Constantly searching

for the the Words that fail,

I find yesterday, and yesterday, and yesterday—

discarded gifts that mortal hands,

can no longer unveil.

They rush in a torrent,

these Words that fail,

whispering temptations as they slide between

traitorous hands.

Writing beside the sputtering candle

in the darkness before dawn

I find my life within the failing flames.

The tangled sheets of sleep are forsaken;

my blood the very ink of the cursed script.

But faltering breath cannot be traded

for the Words that fail.

Man’s fate walks hand in hand with fools,

and in my madness I pursue these Words;

in my wake an upturned chair

lies in solitude. Upon the oaken desk

the flame falters—and dies.

Running, sprinting, stretching out arms

that will never fly;

I chase the Words that fail me;

feeble mortal hands reaching out

for eternity; failing breath

lasting long enough to grasp

with the faintest caress

the elusive scent of eternity—

Gone.