My life is very insular, I move from page to page
never straying far from words which prance upon the written stage.
like a sputtering engine my tongue tangles on a phrase
I rub my eyes, red and raw, I can't remove my aged gaze.
My fingers curl and knuckles gnarl as velum dances right
I read, I write, I think and pause, I can't turn out the light.
Compose, I will, adjust I must, each simile an anchor
to a life much analyzed, but lived with little rancor.
like the scribes of ancient Rome my fingertips are worn
yet I persist with joyous bliss for I know I must go on.
My form has bent, bowed and curled to meet the need of the word
God forbid, I went through this lifetime never being heard.