Unspoken

are these still my words?

these few words,

flickering, faltering,

can I still call these words?

can I still call these

my words

when I have not spoken to them,

nor they to me,

when I have abandoned them,

left them to a harsh and desolate solitude

lost int eh barren wasteland that is

the unspoken land

where twisted trees and forgotten syllables

speak not even to each other, where

no friendly pocket of soil remains

to welcome their unsettled roots

where pretty prose and unsung poems

still cling to crushing hope that I,

in all my solitude, 

might still remember them

are these still my words?