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?

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.