Rivers Run Dry

Empty pages that lay abound, torn out sheets from printers jaw, unfinished paragraphs left for dead, dropped upon the cutting room floor. Silent hours of staring space, loss of time, the mental race. Inside the world sits dead and bare an empty screen, and unmarked sheet.

Yet outside in the cold and the rain, the world rushes on in some insane race, the slow waltz heartbeat of the beating rain and blowing wind, give tempo and soul to an other wise lost cause. In the madness and the hustle and bustle, as the people scurry and hurry like ants, over burdened with lives so unlived, the words they fall and they fall, raining from heavenly skies above, falling down fast and hard to the ground, to the floor, unheard, spilling out into puddles, into lakes and raveens, streaming, never-ending in to that great sea’s beyond, washing away for all eternity’s sake, merging as one, swimming for life just to be heard.

Inside in the warm and the cold, the absence is clear in the echo’s of silence, I try and I try to find them once more, to speak of the words, to bask in there light, to write of the words to fill out the night, yet blinded by sight their calling wont come, their heart beat is gone, yet the pulse rages on.

More pages are torn from printer’s jaw, to litter the floor, half empty promises of sentence’s begun, paragraph’s unfinished, chapter unstarted. These words are elusive inside in the warm and the cold. Hour after hour pours down from the ceilings inside, slipping through floors, windows and doors to join the flowing of the words that pour outside like the rains. Still inside the words wont come, they wont flow or dance again, they will not string themselves together and perform their role on windows screen, they will not come.

Idle, not budging ,they sit and they stare, silent as night, I know they are there, refusing to play, refusing to dance, refusing to breath, they have set their own stance. Crying out echoes of pages unknown, of chapters unstarted of books to be written of worlds not begun. This is the blackness, that darkness that falls when the rivers dry up when water is gone.

Outside, yet outside see how they flow? see how they fall? Dropping like diamonds from sparkling skies, falling like treacle so full and alive, hear how they chatter and chant to themselves, hear how they howl on the winds of all time, free of the ties and the bonds of the old, the grammar and spelling the rules are unknown. Yet see how the world it passes them by, see how the people come rushing past, wasting the words of the lost and unknown, the half-finished story that’s yet to be told.

How idly those passing words flowing like rivers free to explore, falls on unhearing ears, with unseeing eyes, see how the cliché flickers and dies, see how the metaphor falls to the floor, wasted words are missing the beat, the stories untold, the lives of the dreams yet to live, washing away in the rain, slipping down gutters of the lost and unknown. Watch how they dance the words of the lost, see how they fall there stories untold, outside in the wind and the wild they run with rivers and dance with the rain, taunting the winds that blow in the night, unheard by the ears of the names that they call.

Still inside the printer snares, one more empty sheet falls to the floor, the river is dry the words will not come, the silence is deadly all has now gone, lost in the grave yard of unhearing ears, her pulse will not dance those words will not come.

Time ticks onwards words will not fall, there is sand in my throat and my keyboard is clogged, words once my friends depart from me now as one more empty page lands on the floor.

Their calling and calling, and calling some more, calling for words that once I begun, wanting some more of the start that I made, but how do I tell them the words will not come? The rivers run dry after story begun? The words are not mine they belong to themselves they come when they want and leave just the same?

The stories begun but the ending has gone…..!

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~ by Duma Key on November 26, 2009.

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