Drinking Paper

My cup is full of echoes. Did I drink
the paper, swallow down the murky ink?
Am I digesting words from yesterday
like moldy bread? It’s grown so hard to think,
and all the golden words have flown away
and left an empty cup upon my tray,
my speech reduced to glossolalic noise.
They fled like butterflies. They wouldn’t stay.
The few remaining lie like broken toys
among the litter of forgotten joys
and sorrows stranded by the falling tide.
It’s terrible what memory destroys.
I’ll break the cup, and when the water’s dried
I’ll cross unburdened to the other side.