I am sick to death of this draining, this haunted state of false reverie where I’m lulled into a state of dumbfound and airiness, because the flow, it has ceased, as I know it to be. Beautiful melodies once soared from my throat, from my lips, blustering blight, I’m not at all pardoned, from losing bliss, I appear to have lost my creative flight and drive, of its absence, won’t someone please answer to this? Soar, will those wings, the fingertips of eagles? Mountainous sky beings which thrive and are so free, I wonder whether my syncopation, smooth and erratic rhythms will return, they used to project from my energised hands and mind with accepted and utter ease. And now, I lie in my bed, immovable, helpless, irritated by my brain’s inability to cope with an increased stimuli, rather than thrive, it appears to have been fried, rather than embrace the challenge of increasing my ability to dictate and describe I feel I must simply wave them goodbye. It appears they’ve already left, there is no danger at facing the wrong direction which may lead me to a path ill-sent because there’s nothing left here to detail, I’m drained, empty pickling jars, lined upon the shelf, nothing to cure, nothing to consume, little, no, nothing at all, to scrawl, to capture, for you to view. The eagle soars; he’s already discovered another’s truths. © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. Image from Pexels.
Join me also at: