Where’s The Fire?

Nothing is burning inside
Anymore
The smoke has cleared
And the landscape of my mind
Is barren as Mars before the rover.
Though there is something running around in there, under my skull, soft tires rolling over the terrain of my spent brain.

Tissue deprived of oxygen and suffering from dry ice freezer burn.

I see spiders when I close my eyes but I don’t feel like describing them.

I’m an unreliable witness.

I’ll say whatever I need to say to shut you up.

Especially if it’s a lie.

Like the story I tell about me being a writer.

A writer who doesn’t write...

Who has lost the spark, who now
Lives in a dark, cold place with broken mirrors shattering my face into a jigsaw puzzle mix of drop dead eyes and blunt trauma jaws, a mesmerizing kaleidoscope of shallow chill.

Will imagination ever warm me again? I don’t know. My inner life has run out of ideas, ideas that once kindled the fires of creativity, that used to burn night and day through my entire being.

I thought it was going to last forever then it stopped.

Then it left.

And I haven’t been able to find it.

Now, I wake up every morning wondering…