Wordland

How do we pen down the words anymore
when they're already flying out of the
mouths of birds.
They're in the air and the wind
carries them to every inattentive ear.
Are we supposed to write them?
They're not mine.
It's a conflict I cannot resolve.
There's no solace in the in between.
I've got to find this treasure map
to a place nobody's ever seen.
And unheard of land that
even I am blind to.
The weight of that is...challenging.
So it takes caffeine and sleeplessness,
drugs and people,
and passing shadows we're fighting
to try and guide me to a place
even close on that map.
It seems I've been there before
but every time I try to come back
it changes places.
It's a cruel houdini and it bites down
on every syllable I try to take captive.
I thought I was on the horizon,
seeing land,
but I'm really just right where I started;
A soul alone with only keys
at my fingertips.