How

I sometimes go back
To my poems , the letters

Revisit, marvel

How did I love so well
Dream like I did
Vivid, moving pictures

How did I grieve so well
With my heart being open yet safe

It seems so far away
It seems like a different time

My words are sleeping
With me but not really mine
They don’t help me like they did earlier.

Past.

I used to write about shared gardens
And trees of love.
Lately my pen has only bled despair.
My words don’t rhyme,
they fight.
I stare
At pages blank and spilled ink
Random thoughts
Tangled ideas
Rolling in chaos
Smiling in mockery
At the unintended pathos.