The last poème and exposé in the Les Poèmes series, ‘Lost Words’ reflects the crisis moment when words are meaningless and empty.
Tragedy groans where words fail.
I felt old, weary, empty, broken, and numb, all in a heaping pile. I would soon be custom fit with a scarlet letter D, a humiliating fashion faux pas in my pharisaical circle of family and friends. And I was retching emotional vomit from the deepest part of me because of it.
My failure bled me empty of human meaning and value. But who can blame uncontrollable circumstances, meaning the landing of the cosmic ball in life’s spinning wheel of roulette? Sometimes you win. Sometimes you lose.
At the time of this poem’s writing, I was without answers. No one had yet rolled out the scroll containing my future nor shown it to me. No forward path seemed viable.
At some point, all we can do is throw our hands up and bow to the throne of mercy and beg for another chance.
I had nothing left to say.
Beneath the glow of my candlewick,
A blank page betrays my quill.
For words are not yet written that define the sorrow
of this old and bruised man.
As my strength wanes with every sounding of the clock’s hour,
I seek her answers, though she bears none.
With the inking of my quill’s tip,
And the curved stroke of my trembling hand,
All I find before me is a black, inky smudge of senselessness.
So now there lays, beneath the glow of my candlewick,
A stained and crumpled parchment of my life,
And the sound of a ticking clock.