By Fiach Mac Fhionnlaoich
The words haven’t poured in months,
Did they ever?
I think I’ve forgotten what
A pen feels like in your hands,
When it is all you can do
To keep the ink from running off the pages,
When you stop being careful
Writing terrible poetry,
Discordant songs,
Fragile and bright in their own way
Like us, lost amidst the throng
