Amongst the books I am
torn, tattered, and worn,
my pages are yelled,
my binding fragile and
frayed by age.

My story sat for awhile
before a friend found my
shelf, such poetry I wrought
in slow progress; it is dripping
from the pen I hold within
my poetic brain, and you became
the reader of my poetic tongue.

Like rats my thoughts gather
in a pack of many before
looking for attention and food
so here I am writing for you.

It’s a dilution of words
I spit out for you, like
a flaming candle blowing
smoke into your mind.
I linger on your thoughts
before you ***** my wick
releasing my last bit of
light before I become a memory.

These are the poetic bindings
that hold me tightly
to this world. I am like a
violin you strum my strings
and I will begin to sing.

My poetic bindings hold
me tightly allowing me
to write these lines
of wrought and desire.

This is my poetic binding.

© 2018 By Amanda Shelton