Afloat In Words

Would not move the things. 
They had moved me. 
I will never be the same. 

Probably a time to learn, 
listening to yourself. The 
sensors didn't go wrong. 

More often I will unroll 
my candles and burn 
them with my life. 

Ripening old, in dry 
fountains― waiting for 
rains in songs of sorrow. 

History does not repeat. 
I am preparing myself 
to start again writing my book. 

Will not commit anything. 
Standing in morgue 
searching for my unclaimed face.