I can't do it anymore.
I can't write about pain.
When I'm no longer numb or sore.
The words trail out but don't resonate.
Like a warm breath in the cold air,
The words change shape.
They no longer reflect
Red, untempered accents.
They are purple.
Neither hot, nor cold.
Thought out, bought out
before they are told.
Once mirrored upon shadow, upon shadow
The words are reduced to whispers,