O.

I am at wit’s end—

Where the words won’t come and the colors won’t splash and the wind won’t blow.

The long days just give me more time to spend here, at wit’s end.

Where the stars won’t shine and the music won’t play and the water won’t flow.

I am always confounded here, at wit’s end.

Where the eyes won’t blink and the sun won’t rise and the trees won’t grow.

Losing progress is like losing water in your hands, here, at wit’s end.

Where the lips won’t part and the heart won’t beat and the hands won’t throw.

Anywhere is better than being here, at wit’s end.

Where the ice won’t break and the bees won’t buzz and the moon won’t glow.

But I’ve been here before, at wit’s end.

Where the leaves won’t stir and the clouds won’t move and the rain won’t go.

And the tragedy is that I know the path that brings me here, at wit’s end.

Where the fire won’t light and the birds won’t sing and the boat won’t row.

Calm, it is alright, after all, to be here, at wit’s end.

Where the pen won’t write and the sea won’t swell and oh, I don’t know.

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