I used to fly with dragonflies upon the wind,
I could jump so high Jupiter, Neptune,
Uranus and Pluto where my stepping stones.
But one by one the colours in the rainbow drowned,
and down a slide of grey I plummeted to earth as a comet,
not realising that my fiery tale would kill all the dragonflies.
Now every smile’s a boil, that festers before erupting to the surface;
a forced plague: I wear it to dinner, to work, to parties.
There I find that language lies lifeless, draped upon my tongue;
conversing causing lumps of clay to roll from my mouth;
I grapple, moulding them till exhaustion,
still they splatter to the ground as unintelligible lumps.
I believed I could paint new worlds with words,
each one a tiny brush-stroke,
and me a grammatical god,
creating and killing life with a sentence.
Helmet on I’d mine each day,
finding life’s passion hidden in nooks and crannies,
Silver as valuable as coal,
I’d fuel my stories.
Every idea was a landscape to
drench with joy and despair;
But now all I find is smooth chalk,
it crumbles through my fingers.
Fingers that scrape shapes at a blackboard
but my vowels have shriveled and my consonants wilted.
I watch as a layer of tarmac solidifies over every one my creations.
I will not weep for my personalized Pompeii,
impassive as stone I let cerement engulf me too.
and in time my flesh will wither,
leaving a huge Matryoska doll.
After reading of tales most magnificent archaeologists will come,
with tiny tools to excavate,
but i’m just the painted outer shell, an immobile robot;
Spontaneity, Creativity, Integrity, Ingenuity,
Sympathy, Empathy, even Pity fled long ago.
After finding me empty they’ll pack up their tools and leave, until no one comes to look because they’ll be nothing to find.