I string my words together like the storytellers of old
Making a web that holds nothing but the broken patterns of my every thought
And though my heart has been thrown by the trickery of this art;
Though my bones shake at the very thought of threading these weary needles—
Needles rusted by time, my hands too numb to register the feeling—
I live to bring these words to life, like paintings in the sky
With stars blazing and darkness shrouding all else
And for a time, I, the poet, rested in the comfort of my own words
Until the hunger slowly descended from depths of the glittered sky,
Rose from my open window,
Seized my hands and forced upon my eyes a new awareness
So by night, my eyes seek words while my body seeks language
My heart torn to pieces while my fingers work until they burn
Trying to regain the wonder and the truth from old memories that time has stolen away from me
Keeping me hollow; Keeping my whole
Trying to build upon words that may not exist in this new world
Keeping me breathless; Keeping me calm
And as I tremble with the knowledge I now hold, I breathe life into what seems to be without love
Keeping me human; Keeping me strong
My mind speaks volumes and reaches who it must
Giving me a peace that can repair the tears in my hands and heart
And so the reader craves
The writer weaves
And the poet flies
Painting stories throughout the skies