Flood

My poems have become a flood,
the words a flow
I can no longer contain.

I am losing sleep. I am tired.
Still, I cannot stop.
Time is a movement turned into words.

Words are now a force, 
taking feelings and whole conversations with them.
It’s a rage of words,
completely beyond my control.

I’m a tree torn up by its roots
with detritus float,
sharing space with abandoned vehicles.

No sense of time,
time itself now absent all meaning, 
It’s a glut of now, 
an ever unceasing abhorrence.

Permanence is gone.  Not a single building rooted.

There is only time
with syllables ticking like a clock. 
It’s the only sound 
as hands move around a white face
in a constant whir.

Let me tell you, it’s more than upsetting.  
Permanence has no meaning. 
Everything’s afloat.
Even what I once knew and once wanted.
Valued words are gone
and I don’t know how to restore them.