Nomad Writer

There are days when

My throat and nostrils

Twist into clumps

Of wet cotton

And each breath

Is a starved, desperate gag for air

Helplessly brushing over my face

Times when

The door swings open

To a cloudless world

Without memory of the sun

Through the thick webs

Fraught with tripwires

Digging through my ankles

With each step

And moments in-between

When

In the miserable stillness

Of my bedroom

I cannot bring myself

To trust

The hopeful voice

From my reflection

Trapped inside the mirror