Making New

I gathered up the remains of all those poems that somehow fell exhausted upon the page, the ones that ran out of breath and never quite found the words my mind wanted to speak. Some were no more than a line or two, others managed to scale the heights of a stanza before falling back into a terminal silence. Some were just silly, specimens of a moment when my brain fell apart. In the past I simply tore them up into tiny pieces and put them in a bin or used as fuel to feed an open fire. It was like getting rid of the evidence, purging what was not fit to survive. And so I sat before a box of my stutterings, page upon page of times when my poor soul couldn't speak and make itself known. Some barely made a mark before shrinking back into shame. I seemed to be moved by a hope that I will one day weave all these fragments into a poem and let a darkness out and speak a freedom. There is still time to mend and make new.