Lament

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.