The writer in me sits still
And teases as I fish and fidget
As I feel the discomfort
The scratching yawning chasm
Where my words once filled my heart
And flowed onto pages
Making real
My life internal

Even this, empty,
turned on resolutely
By my word holding muse
I turn to pages
Of other’s nets
To soak in how the winds
Have been caught
And wrought
By others.

Response to Vicarious this weeks OSI prompt