Misplaced Crutch

Books used to help me feel whole. Now words seem empty, and I can't fill the void.

Misplaced Crutch

Where is Kerouac
with his crafty knack
to praise a rucksack,
and make it chief.
Where too, is Plato,
with questions aglow,
and answers as foe
to real belief.

Seems my lost and found
is no longer bound,
to hold onto sound
thinkers of worth.
My altar-like shelf
has emptied itself,
and just like myself
needs a rebirth.

I seek to ponder,
but books no longer
make me feel stronger,
or ease the load.
I search for the time,
when answer was rhyme,
and words were sublime
instead of code.





(A poem in Cyhydedd Hir form.)