Stagnant

I struggle for words as they creep up in my throat.
It’s clenching to push out what I want to say,
but words turn to vapor as they reach my tongue.  

Time has trickled away.
I reach out for a recaptured moment,
only to burst the outer skin of the bubble.

The wetness from the bubble kisses my skin.
As the particles disperse, so does my hope.
My train of thought is a confusing entanglement.

Time present is so fragile now.
I don’t know how to nourish these roots,
when there is no soil, no ground.

I am stagnant.