The Day I Run Out of Words

Surely, one day this well will run dry.

I sense that when the writing fails,
when the words no longer flow,
when I have nothing more to say —
if there is nothing to take its place,
that may signal the beginning
of my final days.

Food will turn to ash in my mouth.
Drink will taste like the air I breathe.
Muscles will struggle to tense.
Signs will bring no joy, no peace;
my hands will bear the weight of boulders
so that lifting them will be next to impossible
and the fingers will not be able to dance.
The games I once loved
will all become just too much damn work.
Soft fur on cute paws will elicit no more smiles.
Friends will be gone, either by their own accord
or driven away, or searching
but unable to find me.
I’ll have been hiding long enough
that my absence will become the new normal.
The ways of the swords, of the stick, of the bow,
will no longer have any effect;
there will be no fight left in me
for partner, opponent, or target.

These will be the harbingers.
These will be my signs
that something must change;
my path must change;
for surely if I remain facing that ill wind
I will not survive.

September 22, 2024