End Of The Road
© Copyright 2004 JT Vernon

Without thinking I sat,
Pen perched on page.
Thrashing the thesaurus!

Searching for words
Where there are no words-
Only the somber silence of
A weekend gone sour.

Write what you know
(nothing, nothing.)

Growing up I built towers
Of sand and silk and stone
Billowing neath a waxy sun
Where we all go when we
(go away)
The futile pinks and the bleak purples
Spinnerets on steel-ivory towers.

Madness thrumming on the wind
Somewhere below the dawn.
Sometime before the coffee
(comfort stolen.)
In the stillborn grey of creation.

I find myself thinking of
Rough drafts, and starting over.

Old Mother Sea clucking her tongue,
“Waiting up- I worry so”.
I can only go onward.
Writing myself out
In tattered old magazines.

The ride home follows
Me into bed. Drifting
Back into words
(unspoken, unsaid.)

I was already a year out
When I realized she wanted to die.