Fountain head

by Harrison Pierce

The pen runs dry once more.
Words are little more
than scratches on paper.
Its meaning is lost.

This drought in the air
surrounds us as death,
ever present, ever watchful,

Some say this water is sweet…
I taste dust and murk.

This concern grips me tight
as questions continue to ask:
What is this? What is this?

Light removes all shadows but those held within.
Something I cannot release.

This fear instills doubt yet again.
Yellow menace I cannot foil.
Here, there, anywhere…

Goodness and mercy fail for me.
This doubt remains.

What was finished has become undone.
The prospective future has become blind.
The stairs are gone!
The stairs are gone!
Nothing more.

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