Entry 489

I sense descent
As I climb down-time:
My idle eyes mirror sight.
My inner sound is pounding.
I hear without ears drummed.
My open mouth is dumb.
My mind’s eye is dim

Though still alight.

The pen I hold
Grows cold.

The pages want for flame.

The worlds sown
Swiftly grow&fade.

Now I forge naught.


Where had I previously foraged

For those seeds of ingenuity?

Is this the cost of artistic incontinence?