We're not who we used to be,
that much is certain.
Still, nothing can stop us
if we want it back.
But we have become too lost
Between the pages
that illustrate today and
Outline our tomorrows.
We've forgotten how to write,
take our pens to paper,
And recast our days
Like the novel we had written,
long before we spoke.
We stretch and try to grasp it
but it's out of reach.
Whenever might we graze it,
cold shall it remain.
Then comes the inevitable.
We give into it,
The prying relocation
of our tortured souls.
Find a place to nest it in,
deep within ourselves.
If we forget that we have lost
The War against Words
Then we may find solstice here,
Deep within our plot.
