Sometimes the words are dead,
And you wade through sludged motivation
Grasping brittle twigs of thought
And yanking, just to fall,
Plunged into folds of dead flesh,
Rotted putrid for lack of movement.
Sometimes you breathe to speak,
And suck in dried, empty air
That sweeps and cracks your throat
Like a desert tunnel
And you collapse, for thirst
Of words worth saying.
Sometimes the sun does not warm
So much as burn,
And the stars do not sparkle
So much as distract,
And the river of your soul is nothing
But a muck-clogged creek bed
Wrinkling your nose
With the stench of empty dreams.
– s. Clark
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