Writers
stealing space,
the only thing that disappears when new ideas are born.
we are clothed in past experiences, divining directions
from someone else’s shadow. We clap applause for airs
that carry each of us to cause, support us in our stirrings;
give us strings to act as wings, wipe memories away
at the end of every day. We pray, We play, We say
we are awake from all our dreams; or so it seems.
gather together each of who you think you are
and join to yourself an idea that will someday not exist.
a stirring you cannot resist; A stick without a switch,
eternal scratch without so much an itch. To write or not.
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