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.
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