My words are pale like ghostly visions on the page
Mere simple expressions that cannot raise a fist
To fight for a right and a reason to their place
And all meaning drains from them like a grape’s life blood
But the piquant juice is nowhere to be found
And the color of remorse at not bearing fruit
Resides in my stomach, twisting and churning
In a darkness not unlike the cloudy night sky
Where moon nor stars cut through the binding.
Were it not for fabled spirits blessing my sight
At the hours when estranged sleep begs rest
The pages of my journal would remain blank
And my bed tossed about by a tempest.
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