These dusted off words lie in wait for the placing,
They fell through a hole in my heart long ago,
I can find no path from the floor to the paper,
I’m afraid their journey from here will be slow.
Recycled memories are still ripe for the taking,
To twist, turn and re-shape into poems and prose,
But that’s now a journey they’ve grown weary of making,
Words tire on a path that everyone knows.
So what to do with these dusted off words,
As they lie in wait for the placing?
Just shove them back through that hole in my heart
To await the slow death they’ve been facing.
© DiAnne Ebejer