Stuck

I linger and wonder
but i'm behind a shutter
And if i speak of the wonders, about which i ceased to wander, i stutter
If i speak of the narrow paths or the flickering light of an almost burnt out candle,
About The dark nights and broken glass
I could forever and ever ramble.
But what makes my words of value
If they're spoken in whispers?
What gives life to my shadow?
If it's stuck in pictures.