With frigid fingers words fill pages
A thumb is rested at the head of the pen
It itches with indecision
Below this thoughtless thumb rests fate
No one color sticks out among the masses
A single slip could be decisive
Alas, frozen phalanges are immobile
To right or left
Does direction matter
All inexistent dreams dwell on momentary stillness
And all palpable breaths linger in a great lump
Words are not there and neither is life
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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sounds to me you decided to take a journey to visit me on the DARKside of the moon(lol)! for itz there where you described that what can be thought about cannot be scribed, not even etched in stone (in this case moonrock). no colors needed for the side that's covered by a shadow, DARK.
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Sounds like a major case of writers block
No really it sounds like the one trying to write is having trouble I love the poem it says alot Thank you for sharing this with us it meant alot.
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I feel from this piece,that life of a poem can only come when its master has writen it.The master decides its fate one way are the other...
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