Lost Voice.

The ink fall’s dry upon the page

I have no voice to own this stage

words I seek now ill defined:

shackled beats in cloistered mind.

I hear the call of phrase unborn,

the struggled cries, their rise forlorn.

Fractured sentence, splintered verse

they damn my pen with voice perverse.



© sweetwater 2023
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critique and comments welcome.
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A very nice outburst of frustration. Much enjoyed. Supratik

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