It is a colourless autumn day
As if the rain coated sky-
Consumed a once pastel splattered world
Painted by children and fairy dust.
I was a writer once
And the ink beat through my veins.
I accost my heart about its well;
To find that blood never tided there.
My dreams speak to me-
Splattered over pale walls.
As I scribble oracular words,
Illuminating an unfolding world- -
I wonder if I have been there before
Or am I purely out of mind.
Watching ink drain from the nib as if from-
My brittle wounds.
I wish for a vast ocean of night
To tell me what my name is worth.
And if it cannot give me the value of my letters,
Or casts the wrong eponym in my direction
Will I become as brittle as my words-
Is humanity so fragile