Song of Mourning for the Word

The page is dead,
And all thoughts perished.
Now blackness, bleakness, dominates instead,
Where once were thoughts that dreamed and loved and cherished.

Now Autumn falls and brings along cold darkened days,
Stripped branches reach with bone-thin fingers to the skies.
What once was green is faded into ashen greys,
Now joyous leafy whispers change to doleful cries.

Beneath the darkened clouds and furious showers,
That swell the earth with tempest pools and streams of grime,
Beside the window, watching, I lost hours,
In deep and somber contemplation, oblivious of passing time.

There, at my usual place, I took my leave of mundane life,
And opened up the ledger that contained my daily dreams.
The pale, fresh, virgin canvas, alabaster white,
Awaited pictures coloured not with paint; but thoughts and themes.

There I reached, I pined, I longed, I wrote
Nothing.
Nothing upon the page, nought from my heart and mind and hand but stifling, crippling, suffocating
Nothing.

That this desire can be so spurned and scorned
And speared with barbs; ridiculed and mocked,
That even desperate yearning cannot break the bonds
Enforced by apathy, those self-imposed restricting locks.

That all the creativity within can be contained
And curbed, and that no tiny conscious spark may flower,
Nor grow into a monstrous fire, with glorious flame,
Consuming all with fevered, blistering power.

What hope now for the writer, here, encaged in jaded stone?
This calloused keep of apathetic blocks, of waning fervour,
Where once one wandered, wondered, dreamed alone
Yet satisfied in solitude, a calm, content observer.

Now smothered by a blanket of my own creation,
And shackled in the bitter binding chains I forged,
I have denied my soul emancipation,
I turned my back upon my craft, my love disgorged.

The page is dead, the thought has died within it.
It suffered with foul melancholy, such dour malaise.
The word is dead, and all emotion with it.
Erased without an epitaph to mark its glorious days.

Now the curtains draw across the running thoughts,
And temper all their freedom.
The word is dead.

The page is written.