I read these poets
who bare their souls
with the depth of their poetry
that's how it goes.
As I write - my hand goes limp
I can't begin to scratch out words
to describe my crying heart.
So strange - I can't begin to
create the words to
release my pain - contained
in a vessel dark and deep
Dull notes press against my head
but no music plays.
Just twisted notes clang and shrill
fill my body until I can no longer stand
it. There is no rhythm to the notes
The grating noise brings me no nearer
to meaning that I can write.
If only the noise would be still.
Only then can I find the strength to
Still - and again my hand goes limp.
The pealing of bells finally awakens me.
I stare at my blank page and
try to begin again.
Copyright 2014 Suzannah Wolf Walker all rights reserved