We writers must be crazy fools to lay
our lives on empty words that cannot start
describing what we wish them to convey,
that glimpse of Truth that tears our souls apart.
We dream in day, because in sleepless nights
we wander through the empty halls of words,
we search for sparks, we grasp at fireflies’ light,
spin, reaching, retching, we are drunkards, slurred.
Our eyes are red and raw, our tongues are fat
and slow, we stumble, trip, and fall, for what?
For ink and paper that will burn and that
will disappear, to ashes, ashes. But
the sun we see, the wind we feel, we cling
onto this broken hallelujah’s ring.