Without a word, the door is shut and locked with a resounding click
the supposed-to-be turned into the not-to-be, a trip that didn't take flight
a mouth can cry and make a sound that pierces the heart
but what breaks into the center of the circle is a mouth full of silence
Staying up for days writing, wielding, cajoling a dream into fruition
oversized yellow pages couldn't begin to contain it
ink-stained pinky, a curse of the ever-productive writer-in-waiting
a lament draped in the velvet of this Renaissance
Pushing phrases into time and place, shredding paper like tissue
making arrangements, rearrangements, figments lost in drafts
an ode, emotion wrapped in shadow and repackaged again
the pattern of interpretation clear, a map to find the punchline
A split in vision, a mirror image of two sides, that same tired coin
those rhyming lines spinning around our heads, a group cursed
destined to be on repetition, watching as we fail to age a day
in the faded afternoon light of that perpetual winter's eve
