Lost Stories Poem by Areese Woodson

A screaming current,
With eyes tasting the ground;
That's me.
Hands strangling bars of frozen mist;
Prisoner of winter.
Emotionally solified by flowerless fields,
Abandoned by Earth
And lost as a desert's wind.

The clouds used to mold each day into a story.
Tone would be seen through the colors.
Each reader was rewarded a gentle floating beam of sunshine,
Followed by a wink of moonlight at night.

I remember walking across a field and reading,
'The sunset's reflection could be seen through water'.
Dazed, I saw the page dilute in the artistic fusion.
Our literature drowned,
Choking on the ocean.
The sky became a barren desert;
A cryptic winter blown aside.

Now here I am behind these bars -
Frozen with them,
With winter.
No spring to melt,
Begging for a simple flow.