Of ritual and habit I opened my mouth
to find the prisoners inside had made their way out.
A verbal vestige where nouns once played
sits empty and lonely and still on my face.
Soon ended the clawing at my cheeks and gums,
as I searched in my molars for words bur found none.
Within me a well of speech had run dry,
so I tried to siphon language from people nearby.
But nothing they said could seem to console
the fact that my mouth was naught but a hole.