Syllables, restless in their chains,
Scurrying around in my head,
Crashing into my thoughts,
Forming words, words I should have said.
Words raining down, an endless drizzle,
Piling up as I hold them back;
The busy hum of my day,drowning,
Words seething swirling till I crack.
A dark blur on a page of white,
My racing pen pours forth a stream,
Like a tune from an olden flute,
A melody for an orphaned dream.
