Words. Trapped in time, by time.

For years, silent by choice, now seeking escape.

At first willing, the mute pleasure continues its wayward course, the silent pen refusing to deliver the promise of naked thoughts, thoughts quietly measured by experiences seen only by the keen eye of diluted and compromised comfort.

A prisoner of the mind, each word waiting to cascade over the vaulted edge, only to be stopped once again, by time.

Slowly the scales melt away, allowing for the words to come forward, floating uninhibited with the ease of a leaf floating on a neverending stream.

I will write.