I used to write in images- now I just speak my mind. Have I lost my footing in the world that wraps around? Wind sweeping on a cold fall day, slapping my face and bellowing through soft clothes, reminding me of my fragile bones chilling, convulsing in a shiver.
I used to feel the rhythm of language, each word in its place, each word in its time. Some hitting like a hammer, others waving with one other like a wind chime- writing with a fever for the musicality of rhyme.
I used to write with all my senses, even if just in metaphors. I was a sky of many colors- orange, pink, and darkening late evening blue. The elements had importance, too: air, water, earth, and fire- changing forms with moods. Feeling now like a pond nearing evaporation, and now overflowing its sloshing muddy banks.
Craggy, mountainous terrains on maps of obstacles. Falling burning limbs of forest fire telling of hopeless desire. Empty space and invisible distance, showing up as stretched-out arms.
But now the abstract unfolds more freely, in the flipping pages of my book, and I’m here still, sitting with that vacant look.
