Writer

There is something loose inside the mind of a writer
Some principle that defies gravity,
conformity
That breaks out of the white lined cages
and doesn't limit its thoughts in government controlled stages

My roof is not made of shingles
It is made of ideas
Clear
Open
Undefinable
Indescribable

Marsha marches in the marshes
She doesn't see what her footstep steps in
She doesn't see the worlds she crushes
with her toes, her weight, her oblivion

Footsteps are unforgivable
While nature is unforgettable
Each rock, stone, stem, leaf
The whispers of the trees
Imprinted flash photos
of moments captured in the moment

Alone on a log in the damp Hallows Eve evening
Singing to the mist about sorrows learned in the abyss