Having
replayed some past conversations over and over in my head looking for
rationality, all I've been able to
come up with is a sense of nothingness, an inability to conjure
true thought. So here I struggle to break
free from the prison walls of writers block influenced by everything and nothing...somebody and nobody; and so i keep fighting for freedom.
They
thundered from his lips, cementing the coming event, breathing life into what
was once a meaningless painting.
Now
the plant grows, with roots buried deep within the earth,
branches swaying to and fro revealing what was
once the figment of imagination
hidden under leaves of disgust and distrust.
‘There’s
no place like home’ I keep clicking my heels
willing my mind to keep me from the presence
of
being at the foot mother’s willow tree.
Deafening
silence lends to an air of desolation;
on
the surface I am the Sahara desert, tumble weeds are my thoughts
rolling
aimlessly across dry heated sand.
Martian-the nationality of my mind; dry….its
life giving fluid having dried up eons ago, no
scholastic
mind can aid in correction.
Transformed
into a painting …abstract i become,
no definitive form…, confusing colors , bold
lines,
black
and blue dots jumbled to tell no story …..
but
many stories at once.
As
the ballad of mother’s willow tree bellows through the air,
‘there’
no place like home’, ‘there’s no place like home’…
clicking
my heels I will my mind from the desolation
of
stories never told.
