It appears
I have nothing left to say
words come and go
like stream water
through a sieve
and nothing golden
to spare
except a fire
of burning words
come up over the ridge
that takes no shape
but ghosts
and ash
upon which I choke
in hot dream nights
an endless running
past any muse
who dares
fuel poetics
in this wicked storm.
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Photo by Andreas Berget. Poem ©2026 Jen Payne. If you like this poem, you’ll love my book SLEEPING WITH GHOSTS, on sale at my Etsy Shop.
