I’m lost inside a feeling with no name,

no clock, map, or structure I can trace.

Once, I could summon words like a flame,

now even sparks refuse to show their face.

There was a time I stared into the void

and filled it, line by line with raging fire.

Each word was a blade, every sentence well-employed

to carve out grief, or dress desire in wire.

Now silence sits where words used to live.

My thoughts dissolve before they reach the page.

What use is craft, if nothing comes to give?

What use is voice, if trapped inside a cage?

I named myself a smith of word and will—

yet here I stand, unarmed, and iron-still.