The Opiate, Winter Vol. 12
Lost Words Ann Christine Tabaka Fallow words entombed on the bottom of a stagnant pool, trapped in silted sediment. Hope lost forever in a whirlpool of undying conflict. One, two, three... losing count I start again. Blue street signs point the way to empty opportunities, promises never made, much less broken. Sometimes giving up is easier than drowning in the truth. Vague emotions churning up vile conclusions, as failure looms overhead like the harbinger of doom. Once again, the answer is NO, but what was the question to begin with? Dredging up the words, trying to resurrect the vision, and paint it with new potential. Unsure if the colossal effort is worthwhile. Four, five, six... or in actuality, was that sixty? Always searching for that shiny prize, sparkling like so many bits of broken glass shattered on the sidewalk of our existence. Stepping carefully as to not be bloodied by the glittery aspirations along the path of lost words.
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