.


.

Words
explode onto a page
like bile from the sick,
a tremble intensifying in increasingly
desperate
hands.

There isn't enough time to get it all down,
there never is,
it always slips through fingers like
silken sheets in morning
as the day ahead forces you to
face it.

Can't kick or scream from the truth
that sits in your breast,
cold and heavy
as a corpse
left to rot above ground
beside its hollow coffin.

Unspeakable,
indescribable things
swirl into a maelstrom of unexplainable impressions,
coloring faces and lights with a brush
wielded by an artist
that uses your hands
and arms
and mouth
but can't possibly be
you...

Could it?

.


.