So little left to express.
Spleen? Acedia?
The signifiers have lost their signifieds and are straying.
Ideas, heavy as rock, sink to the bottom of rivers
waiting to be swept away by a sudden flood of effervescence
or settle, with the mud, along the banks of dam lakes
and rot.
Occasionally, some debris resurfaces – a severed head still smiling,
an arm, the fuselage of last year’s vacation… (or was it the year before last?!)
only to be whirled away with the rest of the waste.
March. Sleet.
Pout. Plans.
Hope.
Nothing.
Emptied of meaning, the words denote nothing.
Imponderable, impalpable, floating.
The slightest gale will whisk them up to the barren sky
like balloons (escaped? released?) out of the hands of children.
Never to return.
I don’t really miss them.
There is so little left to express.
Torpor.
Writer Between Worlds 