Lost in contemplation

My mind was not as poetic anymore
I didn’t feel like a tragedy
I didn’t need to breathe in metaphors
And they didn’t even linger near me

I wasn’t lighting fires every night
And extinguishing them with my palm
I wasn’t trying to hold on to moments
I did not crave that intimacy, that warmth

But then I wondered, who am I?
If my poetry refuses to salvage me
On days that I have even lesser to give
Than what I’d estimated my abilities to be

What have I left with me?
If my fingers refused to sprawl
And let the world hear of every
Elation that continues to gnaw

My mind was still a whirlpool
That arrived with dramatic voiceovers
And my hands still shivered every time
I tried to climb one step up the ladder

Even though I tired pretty often
I was unable to let be
Everything I thought I resembled
That appeared to be rooted so deep.

(I’m still looking for answers
To questions that I don’t understand
For poetry sometimes still rescues me when
I lose sight of the ground on which I stand)


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