The days go by so quickly,
as I struggle with the tangled wind,
and I’ve become a scrambled mess,
twisted like a hawthorne cluster
digging its claws into an innocent, decaying tower of birch.
How I lament these days,
though I know I must wear a strong facade,
for I’ve heard it said that God never sends us more pain
than we can handle.
Still, I feel the walls closing in,
and if I’m being truthful,
I know I loathe being overwhelmed by fear.
As I search for hollow answers and solutions,
I seem to have lost my poet’s pen,
while spilled coffee stains my empty page,
that used to get filled regularly,
like a tank of gas,
or cosmic dust,
once upon a time,
when I ate the refracted sunshine and danced among the stars,
blissfully scribbling,
under the influence of poetry.
© Connie Song 2021. All Rights Reserved.
