Stonewalled

I long for these floodgates to burst,

For what I imagine to be made real;

Such a shame that I have nothing but

Myself as the canvas,

and the paint.

Melodies form, falter and die

On fingertips rendered motionless by doubt.

Where shall I go?

Who has my key?

Fires rage in the misty distance, granting the night

A halo of its own;

Every footstep leaves its mark in the ground,

As I walk on further, to lose myself so I may

Reclaim what was never mine.