these pegs for toes
do not point my walk in the right direction
these days. They have taken to feeling numb
and being confused, forgetting they need
to take me to places, forgetting their reason,
forgetting like suicidal people forget reasons
i sit on the park benches, looking for people
to talk to, perhaps relate. but then I remember
people have sold their ears for important talk only.
so i talk to the sky, lips moving inaudibly
slowly, trying to suit its ambling rhythm
half-written poems in papers, scrunched
in my pocket, feebly move with little life
to remind me they exist.
yes, i could, i could go over them again
and finger point their direction and build them
into miniature castles
but my mind has forgotten what good poetry
tastes like. There is a hole where my thoughts
slip away into wisps of the night, and i am left
grasping on to the remnants, crying
because each of those flown away thoughts
is like a vein forgetting how to function.