Nomad Writer

Emptied boxes scatter the misted floor, collecting dust from ideas left too long in the shed. She kneels among the disarray of forgotten words – unfinished syllables and meager remnants of starved inspiration. Rusted and frayed. Breaking away like ashen sediments at the slightest touch. And she feels the wilting all around her as if it were her own heart losing its rhythm. She never meant for things to get this bad — even the cobwebs have grown too thick, stretching beyond clandestine borders to nest in streams of revealing light. And it is much too late to salvage what she’s lost.