My tongue is tied, my pen is weak,
The thoughts I hold, the words I seek.
Like scattered leaves in wayward breeze,
They dance beyond my grasp—unseized.
I speak, yet silence fills the air,
A hollow echo, stripped and bare.
The heart’s full tide, the mind’s bright flame,
Are lost in language—shackled, tame.
Oh, if my soul could bleed in ink,
Or eyes could speak what lips can’t link!
But meaning slips through phrases thin,
A prisoner of the voice within.
