The pen and the page become the cage but
I am in a rush and then
I am stilled in the still night and
the quill is the only light, from which spills out
the tightness in my chest.
Words unlit,unwrit are the **** on the street,the darkness
I meet in the cage and yet
I can caress with the pen the page,make love as the ink makes love
with each link of the letters,I think on this thought when I have been brought
to the edge of all reason,
where every season I see is the cage that locks me into writing and reading,cutting my wrists to find I am bleeding more ink,leading me on,
be still or be gone and still I write on,at the end of the alphabet I wonder if I will get a gold star or
just another bar to add to the other bars on
this cage.