When there is no writing,
I find myself in the middle of a road,
as alone as one feels without a phone,
night draping my shoulders — a long,
heavy cloak dragging behind my heels.
Trees so tall they morph into darkness
bulge beside me — grand, continuous
borders blocking all muses from my mind.
A half-moon follows me, casting a grey
gaze on this place of no words, and
all I see are shadows.