The Flood
THE FLOOD
Sun pours through the window,
a shower of light to strike
the sheer white pages of my mind,
a stark reminder of emptiness
mocking me like the faces on the wall.
I think of Zora and Atlantis, (how does
history know if any of us ever existed?)
the sinking feeling of wordlessness
drowning me. Nassau braces for a hurricane
while I wait for the flood to reach
my pen and the verbal onslaught
that will leave paper bloodied and bruised
with the wounded thoughts
of a penny-less wordsmith.
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