Ernesto Bertz

Sitting on another cold floor

as my ankles turn to dust.

Frantic chaotic frightened calm:

the only friend that I can trust.

 

The birds outside my window can't hear me

no matter how loud I whisper.

I write letters to my inspiration.

Let her know how much I miss her.

 

A gust of wind like thoughts do not linger.

 

Fingers weighted with lead in a dark room

where my thoughts and I pound keys.

I ask myself:

Am I afraid of my own shadows?

Or are they afraid of me?