I have gone so long without writing that the skin
on my fingers is cracking and little ash particles
fall slowly to the ground when I attempt to write again.
Writing will moisten my dried wounds and stitch my
thoughts into the crevices of my fingers so as I write
they will gently unravel themselves and fall into place.
Walt Whitman said that in order to capture the heartbeat
of life one must write in the instant, and that is what I have
been lacking to do for some time now. Perhaps that may be
the reason for the lifeless words lain strewn across the
pages of my leather bound journal. Journal? No. Coffin.
Cobwebs of lonely spiders have inhabited the thoughts
I have murdered, catching the words - slithering like worms -
that have managed to escape the death I caused.
I am capable of resuscitating my dead words, and that
is what I will do.