Saturday, August 8, 2009
My Pen Sings A Song
Light Movement of fingers
Summon to life an unknown story
Adventure’s song playing upon
A canvas of white:
He isn’t real. Neither is she. Or it.
But they are real to the soul of my
Flowing out of the dark subconscious of mind
And into crafted fantasy life.
Like a child escaping from a pushing wound.
They lived a short time
Crumples of torn and ravaged white paper
Haunt the wastebasket
Ghosts of millions of stories
Never brought forth to light
Maddened, but never truly gone
I ignite heroes
Bring forth dragons for adventure,
Exterminate the fruits of a heart made evil
Evil I conjured
Vindicate the poor
Poverty I gave
If only the world
Was as attentive as all strokes
Of a black pen across endless white
Then life would be just like a snowbird
Free in the purity of the arctic tundra.