Wordless

A Poem by Ashe

My words become less
My words,
they used to dance,
a vibrant, swirling kaleidoscope,
poured from my soul,
effortlessly.

Now,
a trickle, a hesitant drip,
from a faucet long forgotten.
Month by month,
the well runs drier.

Week by week,
the echoes fade,
leaving only silence,
a vast, unnerving emptiness
where laughter once resided.

Day by day,
the colors dull,
the rhythm falters,
the melody lost
in the static of an unknown frequency.

I reach for them,
these elusive phrases,
these phantom thoughts,
like grasping at smoke,
they dissipate before my touch.

The stories untold,
the poems unwritten,
the conversations unsaid,
pile up, a heavy weight
pressing down on my chest.

A slow retreat,
like tides receding from the shore,
leaving shells and secrets
scattered, brittle in the sun.

I wake each morning,
tea steaming in the quiet,
the world bustling outside my window,
but my tongue feels heavy,
like it’s dragging through mud,
the weight of unspoken thoughts
pressing down against my throat.

What dreams carried me once,
words dancing in the night,
now flutter like moths
against a closed window,
restless and silent,
and I am left
with the echoes of sentences
that never found their way out.

Each heartbeat seems to pull
a syllable from my mind,
the hunger for expression
simmers just beneath the surface,
and yet, my lips remain sealed,
a fortress of ideas
that won’t rise to speak.

There was a time
when my thoughts flowed freely,
a river of images and sounds,
but now, a stream turned trickle,
the vivid colors of my imagination
muted, fading like old photographs,
forgotten in the corners of dusty drawers.

I wander through my days,
the landscape stretching unyielding,
conversations become riddles,
the laughter of friends
a distant melody,
and I find myself smiling along,
a ghost among the living,
while the words slip further away.

Is it the weight of expectation?
The need to impress,
to say something beautiful,
that binds my tongue
in invisible chains?
Or is it the exhaustion of being heard,
the fear that my truths
will not resonate,
that will echo back,
asking,
why bother at all?

I watch the clouds shift,
the leaves turning golden,
each season carving a path,
but my voice,
like a dry branch
in an empty forest,
cracks under its own stillness.

What am I losing,
what treasure slips through my fingers?
The longing to connect,
to weave my thoughts into the world,
to feel the rush of collective breath,
is it fading,
or merely transformed,
becoming something quieter,
a whisper rather than a shout?

Perhaps it is the silence,
the beauty in what is not said,
a peaceful acceptance
that sometimes,
less is more.
In the stillness,
I can hear the heartbeat of existence,
the soft sigh of the universe,
and maybe,
just maybe,
that is where the words find new life,
nestled deep in the spaces
between the thoughts,
waiting patiently
for the moment to return.

Is it fatigue?
A weariness of spirit?
A world too loud,
drowning out the whispers
of my inner voice?

Or something deeper,
something unseen,
a silent thief
stealing the very essence
of my being?

I do not understand.
The why eludes me,
a shadow flitting
just beyond the edge
of my perception.

My words become less,

and I am becoming less with them,
a slow, silent fading,
a gradual disappearance
into the quiet void.

© 2025 Ashe

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Reviews

Trivén

The very rich self-narration and echoing monologue, ever consuming the very thing it asserts to lack; only increasingly withdrawing and dragging their words down with them. Effective and relatable, much enjoyed this poem. Well done, Ashe.