Stolen

These aren’t my
thoughts and dreams.
I catalog a list
of sins and hopes
in blood that isn’t mine,

spilled ink
to paint every page
of my life.
They scream through me
and I cannot harness,
cannot tame,
cannot rein them in enough
to make their syllables legible,
to make their horrors sound enough
to have sense.

Why have imagination
when its legs are crippled
and its body too full of holes
to do anything but collapse?

What is the use of seeing color?

I dream and dream and dream
but
I cannot make myself
fly as I used to.