For all the words in my head,
While I lay dozing in my bed.
I feared they would just go away.
They did not, for here they'll stay,
Down on paper with scratching pen,
While awaiting more words
To write again.

Must I be the way I am?
Can I change my being?
Must I walk this road alone?
Going through life, not seeing?

The fire has died now,
burning all the logs
into embers.
Crackling of wood,
cooling,
echoes through the room,
while noises of the
dishwasher, cycling,
increasing intensity,
drowning out my memories.

A single, lonely Moth
flits to the flickering flame
Gone