By Talyn Gray


It would come from my finger tips,

rainbows and bright light

My life had been eclipsed,

this imagery so bright

The drought was never long,

the well was always full;

sloshing, clicking, and singing a song

The voices of my characters, a constant pull

the scenarios and scenes played so clear

My hands were hardly fast enough to get into gear


But dust now comes from my finger tips,

dry and brittle like winter chapped lips

The light has faded, a dusty weak whisper

the voices thirsty and not as they were

My well has run dry

For my mind used to fly,

and my fingers would touch the sky

But now my fingers are pained and arthritic

A mind once free, now too analytic