The days have worn away time as the wind sands off the edges of a mountain; thought memory was reduced to strewn fragments belonging to some childs' lost puzzle. Summer days have become humid causing me to sleep restlessly, waking at random hours of the day to feel the sickening drench of sweat. The dead can't sing with a split wooden tongue that taps morse code in their coffin six feet under. My usual dance of pen 'pon paper has waned and tapered off to a crawl; thought I spent little time thinking, more time writing, and was left lacking. The past has haunted me too long-- instinct senses the need to bury this fire in sand, and set sail for fertile realms. The dead can't sing with a split wooden tongue that taps morse code in their coffin six feet under. Breathing new life and adding fresh dimensions to the words I've penned, labelled as poetry, is a foreboding challenge that I have not risen to. I can no longer remain neutral and static. My being can not stomach this puerile quiescence; my stooped character must rise and progress, can't call myself "the flower that won't bloom" anymore-- Growth isn't accomplished through stubborn stasis, and The dead can't sing with a split wooden tongue that taps morse code in their coffin six feet under; silence spoken with bloody lips that hang deflated.