The pen is being wielded by
her misshapen fingers.
A child’s hand- like a supposed
joke, that is pumped by the veins of
A century old heart.
Wisdom grays, that heard a million
Stories, but never knew her own.
In the turbulence of whispers though,
She now sought her belonging.
A feeble, but a strong call,
Like the distant seething of a hurricane,
Opens the gateway, to what
Will always be.
They have had to fell fortresses,
Built of the cement of inherited love.
Over nights and over years,
Over the seven seas of unslept nights.
Her dismantled breath and an autonomous neck, still reaching out,
beyond mediocrity and not being understood-
The radio humming through the ticking pulse of the night.
Allowing the plastic biro and the ink of tomorrow to stain
The callus on a well rounded, cuticle bitten
Finger- to swear and for pleasure.
Setting sail on some once-upon-a-times and
Paperboat of dreams.
For what is poetry to a poet, but
A vacant essay, with
No beginnings and no ends, but
A scattered middle, shaped wholesome with,
Words strewn like confetti and
Cherished like a memory.