Poet’s Dread

What will I do when words stop?
When they turn to dust
Corpses in the tomb of my heart?

What will I do when words grow silent?
Mute, stony things
Unreadable hieroglyphs
Without phonics
Without vibration?

What will come when words die?
When they no longer breathe
Gathering precious air
Filling, expanding lungs
With sweet life?
What then?

My fingers will play across the keys
Caressing, like a lover teasing
But they will not respond.
The time is coming when they will not kiss me
Will not move
Undulating
Giving and receiving life.

What will become of me
When I’ve nothing to offer
Nothing to give?
Empty spirit in a world begging thought
Demanding expression
Giving form and body
To common emotion.

Words are bread
In a baker’s oven
But I will have no yeast to rise the dough.
Tell me, if you can
What will come of me then?