days or days of words,
leave me like a flock of birds
one by one.        find a place,
                        to come to rest,
and take me there, let me be,
but not alone,

i am so alone,
eyes observe with every breath,
every step, down streets filled,
my arms by my sides, hang tired
reaching for
the spectres,

relationships,
empty boats,
float by, no rope have i to throw,
nor harbour safe
or sage place to anchor, there be,
distractions like rocks, waiting for me,
YOU,

lay alike in wait, wish I, you would,
find me, for your softness,
would rip me bow to stern,
empty all the words i did yearn
to spill on paper, cover a screen,
with worlds,

in ink stained blood, of my own hand,
my write hand, type set for all to see,
when i am free,
and believe,

that dragonflies, win staring contests,
the story is important to tell, and will be read,
humbly God gifts us,
and we each in our turn,
not deserving or have earned,

finding, sharing, enough to care,
to give what you have,
trusting, rusting away,
from the inside out,

rain drops pelt the ground
from the sky make a sentence,
fill a cup with a paragraph,
throw myself to the ground,
soak them up as i roll around,
run inside and wring out
every drop on pages scattered
across the floor and watch
for words to appear, that
i will know what i am like,
                         really like,
so the lies i live will flee,
to the shadows and leave me,
so
you will
know that the one you love,
is a writer of stories,
a teller of tales,
not a scribe but a scribbler,
who places people and places,
and colours and conflict,
and lives and love
and cups of coffee black.

Thirty days hath November,
have i the will to write fifty
thousand and ninety-nine words,
from my heart,
from, my hands,
to tell a story.
Give God the glory,
i will, in thanks.