The words don't come.
No...that's not true.
The words *wont* come.
There are too many,
and yet too few.

A thousand words
on the cusp of being said,
Clinging to my lips,
Hanging on the tip of a tongue--
Unspeakable. Inaccessible.

Useless.

They are all wrong.
They do not belong to me.
These are words spoken
by another stricken tongue.
They are not mine...

Is that my penance--
To feel but not to say?

I do not know.


© Nova Literary Works