My trust has been murdered
and these poor hands of mine
have been destroyed in the fight.

The words that these
brittle fingers reach for are
too far away, taunting me.

Blood soaks this keyboard,
seeping from the lines
on my hands, small rivers forming
between the keys.

Languages have always loved me,
and I loved them, but alas
one always loves the other more.

This stale imagery is all
I'm able to communicate with,
unable to coax the words
to do my bidding.

My once strong hands
can no longer latch upon the letters,
like water they slip
right between the cracks.

This is a loss of mentality,
a loss of invincibility...
this is my loss of inspiration.

As long as I have meat upon
these fingers I'll continue attempting,
long after the God in me dies.