Poetry has left my body.
In its wake it left something bruised,
broken and weak.
It feels like I lost a limb,
like a whisper on my heart telling me stories
of emptiness and despair.
Poetry has left my body.
The world is losing color,
everything is mixed with gray
The big city has less light and the buildings
seem to be becoming bigger
closing the view of the sky.
Poetry has left my body.
Every day is the same,
beauty no longer exists in the mundane.
Step after step, hour after hour
words keep evading me.
Poetry has left my body.
I ran through old notebooks and
verses written late at night.
The person who wrote them
seems like a stranger to me.
A person with no face, no shape
slowly fading away from my memory.
Poetry has left my body.
A departure that left me on my knees.
An indescribable loss, an unstoppable internal bleeding.
It left me in its wake but who is me
if my soul can no longer speak?
Poetry has left my body
and the only way out is through.
Through the pain, through the sorrow,
through the loss
stepping over all those words I lost.
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