It is my own words that fail to inspire me:
They do not travel far enough
to reach the land of tall medicine and dark thieves;
they wait instead in formations of solitude,
railroad tracks beneath a passing train.
The odds were stacked against me from the beginning.
Never one to gamble, I threw my money down
without thought of loss or gain.
Smelling salts nestled in crystal containers
placed carefully on white linen,
there for the feint of heart.
It was the calm gesturing of the village idiot
that at last captured me,
rendering me still.
The sword at last turned inward,
enough to cause the eyeballs to roll
in their wide fibrous sockets.
His shaking hands reminded me
that killing isn’t criminal
when the intent is pure.
It was then that I embraced my own muteness,
any truth or knowledge once possessed
seen for the fuzzy sediment it is --
a fence forcing me backwards, iron-spiked;
the sentry gazing at the whiteness of a vast field.