i spoke back into the echo
of an earlier cry
an
outburst of comfort
attempting
to heal the older me.

i dug my patch of dirt
with my fingers in repentance

this formality before the hurt
this action my penance.

like these roots that roam
far beyond their means

this heart can't be home
to any semblance of honesty it seems.

with the soil                              a cradle
weighing me down
i see a vision of a mottled crown
the coldness seeping in
and for growth to start somewhere within.

Hi there Poet,

Your presence is always precious
here in my home,
Whether it’s lovesick confessions
or a need to not be alone.

These white walls and boxes
to which you can write any sins away,
or to just play dally with linguistic foxes,
to make quicker a boring day.

To scrawl out words black
to find redress and re-rhyme,
to release and not hold back
to find home-truths, to take your time.

I can take you at your word
be it dishevelled, battered or grey,
your weary voice can be heard
to make some weight fall away.

But now Dear Poet
it’s time to end this tune,
you’ve written a new one? Well show it,
the one hidden in your drafts since June.