I WRITE

I WRITE I write, diamonds mingle with sawdust, i sit here waiting like beethoven for that clarity, when universe finds these eyes to see through, though not blessed by deafness, i persist, the lines are narrow but treacherous, the ocean is large but thoroughly broken. I see the crate upon which i sold lemonade when i was six, and the day i gave birth to the idea of myself, laundromats i've traveled in, standing outside with a wistful cigarette, streets and concrete, narrow tunnels slicing through stone, listening for the far off tambourine, the slowly evolving rejoiceful dream. I write, concerning the heart cleverly impaled on the desk before me, blood drips to my feet, and the light from the one who made me leaves its shadow where fear devours need. I write, to protest not so much fate, but the kingdom that designs it. I write, with but meager resources in the tall and lonely spire of the long-forgotten self, until the silence hounds me no longer. Written July 27th, 1997 © on Jun 28 2001 06:36 AM PST   0 • 10