Words fall like autumn leaves. A low dying storm, pressured harbinger of winter, irrevocably sucks them from my lips. Golden on my tongue, they tumble in many evanescent colours.
Flutters of purple prose scarcely tinge the air as they drop. Zestful orange phrases, deprived of sunlight, wilt untouched. Yellowed poems drift with the breeze like doomed September wasps. And blues pile up.
Sweet pink verses frost pulpous heaps. Late blooming wit blushes in the afterglow of burgundy celebrations. Red fiery declarations once shook the earth, now are subsumed. But blues pile up.
Lilac recollections tickle my oak-barked throat and shake my quivering hands. A turquoise sigh flickers like a damselfly’s wings. Untarnished silver songs illuminate the silence where blues pile up.
Now gathered at my feet, these words fade – this painter’s palette turns monochromatic brown. They lie fragmented, meaninglessly strewn and recycled by mycelial threads into unfamiliar forms. But this is what life was born to do.
And will be born to – every bright snowdrop, crocus and daffodil. The spring sun conducts a new chorus. I take a deep breath and try to exhale green, living words.
Nothing comes. As if there is nothing. Nothing inside. Grey tongue. Dry lips let no words slip anew.
Everything is all around me.
I step clear. And leave my footprint.