Friday, May 3, 2013


The world is a set of icy fingers
Wrapped around a fragmented page
On which are written broken words
In a language I can’t understand
Telling a story with no ending
At least, not one that is written yet.

I am trying to write an ending
But I don’t know what words to use
And the ink is drying on the quill
With only a little while left
For me to learn the language
Much less to tell a good story.

But just when I lose all hope
I think, maybe, I understand
Just a few little words, like
“grace”, “laughter”, “patience”
And maybe that’s enough
To carry on just for now.

Not an ending but a beginning
A story still being told.
And maybe I’m not the only one
Who gets to tell it.
Maybe I’ll leave the next part
For you and for you and for You.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Your writing style isn't really what I expected when you told me that you write a lot. Interesting. :)

You seem to gravitate toward a kind of metaphysical poeticism, even in your prose. I get the general feeling more than I consciously make sense of it.