by Anitsirhc

Created on: June 16, 2008

De-Composed

The whir of the wind and outside distractions
the noise of my fingers as they speak for me
the creak of my chair as i fidget and stir
and the symphony of my thoughts.
Both requiem and grand overture triumph in my spite
as my thoughts that clash and fall around me
toil in the fight.
Some die in the battle and never win
and serve only to fuel a writer's despair,
the lament that is sewn is of no compare
for the only dead that can torture this living soul
are the words that got away.

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