Lying on my back.
In bed, tired and cold,
Alone, of course, in a room, somewhere.
Words, a communication of thoughts,
Strung together to form ideas,
Compiled by the dying brain
Into an image of itself.
Words nobody reads,
Stuff duplicated, stuff discarded.
Images drawn, compositions played,
Words still just words on a page.
Poetry expelled as ink symbols and gestures
Creative expression copying a feeings description.
Loss of energy, loss of communication-
Despair! Just words on a page.
