Words, once easily split from pen, have long since dried,
and only scratches can be heard in the dark, leaving no mark.
The heart attempts to breach its bony cage, it's unsuccessful,
and nothing can be done to set it free.
The blood rushes out, awake after a year's sleep,
but fingers stay frozen, unable to unchain the spirit,
and so its torment continues, no longer unaware of emotion
it strives upwards, but the wings I once created do not unfurl,
nothing holds me up over this abyss.
Author notes
Not sure it makes sense without knowing my situation, but that is too complex to write here. If it doesn't make much sense, tell me and I'll try to add more detail.
A contest entry
- The Obligatory PIF - Quickie - PW by DecorusApparatus.
620 points, ended October 5, 16 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
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