Mute, I stand accused,

scribbling words,
meaningless and empty.

Slipping into a vacuum,
torn apart with each breath,
wasting precious time,

on verses never to be read,
jarred by today’s tattered rhyme.

Mute, I stand alone,
wishing for little,
scraping an endless pit,

of longing and of fear,
unashamedly drenched,

by frayed nerves,
that wash away,
every stinging tear.

Mute, I stand,
picking at scabs,
of wounds raw and fresh,

yearning for a whisper,
of a forgotten sonnet,

stitching a gaping emptiness,

as today departs,
snatching peace as it leaves,

threatening a tomorrow,

desolate and charred,

while jabbing at fractured sentiments,

as memories fade,

leaving this man,

alone, at rest, at last,

holding onto futile desire,



forever scarred