Lost Language

Every light keying—playing the wrong keys,
In a meagry nest sets me. So angered,
I find no sustenance in games of language.

It's pitiful: to graze on words spouting
Inky thoughts, to slide down shadowed wadis,
When uphill the natural blue beckons.

And closing my eyes to the pain, I climb,
Listening for beauty, plaintively wondering,
Why with the birds in song can I not speak?