I’m no longer the poet,
He’s there in my head,
He’s asking the questions,
And writing these words,
But unplugged.
The nerve endings are tied,
Cauterised and curled,
He’s trapped in a cell,
Firing impulses like Morse code,
But unheeded.
It’s taught me not to listen,
Travelling through time,
Obeying practicalities.
I feel the tears,
The internal manifestation
Of the expression, open-mouthed,
Of impending speech.
But I bleed frustration,
I sweat intellectual impotence,
And we are silent.
