The worst thing to know

is when the words won’t come.

What is poetry?

Once it was the music of your soul,

and now there is naught but silence.

You struggle with your collection of words,

piecing together “cat” and “symphony,”

but there is no flow between the two.

Nor is there a river amongst the others.

What do you do when your tongue

is cut off and cast away

by the sorrows of the day?

You sit and wonder in the dark,

where, where did your beloved

words

go?