Where do the words go
  when I stop writing?
Surely they are somewhere
  beyond my reach.

Do they mourn my loss
  as I do theirs
or are they resigned
  beneath the shade of patience
celebrating this moment of peace?

Is peace so important to the mind
  that it can end the purpose I’ve given it
find its own and leave us both tortured
  or has the mind instead
found itself lost and the words with it?

There is horror in silence
lament the empty page
but forget the mind,
that was lost long ago.