I used to carve worlds with words—
now they slip,
melt into pictures I never asked for.
Scenes flood in, but syntax fades.
The page, once loyal, stares blank.
A thousand selves write better than me
in timelines I can’t touch.
I watch, wordless, aching to return.
Still, something drips from my fingers—
not poems, but fragments,
half-magic, half-madness.
Maybe that’s the new craft.
©redhyena
R