It is strange
the paths I tread
seem so close
to paths I walked
not so long ago
but so strangely different...
in my mind I hear
the echoes of ideas
begging to be scribed
onto the page
and where once
my pen would have
taken flight in a blur
to scrawl words in
form, now only does
my inner voice
struggle to find
any sensible meaning
in all and any
attempts to pen
thought to page...
I know not what
transpired
but only something
has misaligned
or broken
and attempts
to pinpoint
this resistance
continually fail
and my quill bleeds
dry scribbling
nonsense
but even nonsense
begins to sound
sensible
after a thousand
relentless repetitions
and I disgress
as always
everynothing
is nonsense to me.