Inky stains on my fingers
Echo the night outside
But the moon is veiled
By clouds weighted down by rain,
Waiting to fall,
While simultaneously
Lightning seeks out hearts to strike
And blank screens
Are devoid of light.
It was my little bit of proof,
However insignificant,
Or inconsequential -
Even slight,
That there may still be streaks of color
In this world of black and white.
New words can never replace
The ones that used to be there
Before nightfall blurred vision
And unfurled dusty fog
Tainted by flecks of inarticulate moisture
Into the world that I had painstakingly created.
That feeling of rising nausea
At the first recognition that it is gone.
Toss and turn
As the sun circles
And sleep evades
When the closing of eyes
Only seeks to bring back
The memories of
The words that felt so eloquent then -
Before they faded away.
And I am left mumbling blank thoughts
Lacking in coherence
As I think about what once was there
Attempting to grace empty sheets
Of pallid paper
With words that would bring verve
In place of vacant stares
And comatose minds
Who search and search for the words
That are now gone.
Time has slipped through trembling hands
Attempting to suppress screams
Of a shattered soul
Glazed with broken thoughts
And stuttering ramblings
That are painting the recollections
Of that emaciated sheet of rolling white
That had once held that proof of mine
That this world is not gray,
Nor black,
Nor white,
But filled with the words
That could bring life to the prosaic utterances
Of others whose hearts were in pain -
So very much like mine.