Writing

Air and life.

Pen to parchment.

Keys on a board.

Far exceeding the edge of a clandestine knife.

Words dug out of a deep hypnotic hollows

with the edge of a blade, mirrored by dictated passages…

Letters, various, sashay-ing into short sentences.

Someday…soon I had hoped to feel less shallow.

 

Head strong, book smart, another phrase, another’s way.

Feverishly wanting to preserve, I began to write my own words.

Short prose of pigments, flowers that flow.

Bouncing balls encompassing…where I had been.

And, where I wanted to go.

 

I gave no true thought to redemption upon someone else’s sentence.

Or, holding a dull shank to my detention.

In the rural mayhem, of my life.

A gift had been given to me…rather innocuously.

Nothing comes to mind…in the dirt…correct, grammatically.

 

My predator became the prey with the verse of my own words.

Rendering this menacing voice.

Pushing it further down the page.

Bidding it absurd.