On the Tip of My Tongue

The words have gone, bled away like blood spilling from a fatal wound. A dark pool that only serves to remind me of the futility of anything I’d hoped to do; a dream that was never dreamt; a civilization that was lost and buried by a jungle, and never discovered. I am here with something on the tip of my tongue that seems invisible and impenetrable all at once. If I try to dwell on it, it flits away like a hummingbird, if I try to grasp it, it tumbles into a bottomless sea like a rare diamond. There is no hand upon my shoulder, no quiet voice against my ear. The future is as far away as the past and I am stuck in the here and now. My head is as heavy as my heart, my thoughts as heavy as my feet. I sit and rest in the middle of the desert, and one direction is indistinguishable from another. If there is a path it has been rubbed out, I cannot see it.