On the wooden tiles,
the tanned shade a reminder
of tiny grains of sand,
the border to the ocean,
to the unknown.
On the wooden tiles,
where words flow out my fingertips
like a snowboarder slides
over serene snow,
leaving a scraped scene in her path.
On the wooden tiles,
where I do my best thinking.
A journal to my left,
the reminder of my past.
My memories.
A melody of murkiness clearing
into lines of text,
serifs removed
as I’m reminded of the truth.
A font is a beautiful thing.
My mind is a font
of which I paint with lead,
little lines, circles, and swirls
transforming before me,
recorded for eternity
in the open notebook to my right.
Right where I form my future,
my wishes,
my dreams.
Dreams created on a
teal and tanned typewriter,
erasure impossible,
only blocked out and burned,
escape imminent,
awoken as I turn off the screen.
