The Writer

I write my waking incoherence
And when I sleep, I dream in words;
I write out lines as daily penance
And let them go, like captive birds.
 
The words are seeded in the darkness,
Plucked like stars from midnight skies;
I may not know their rhyme or reason,
Or if they’re foolish, foul or wise.
 
I write in ink on crushed papyrus,
I write in blood to spread the virus;
I write for love, I write for money,
I write in vinegar and honey.
 
The joy is in the puzzle making,
In finding pieces that might fit;
It’s not unlike the art of baking,
Or solving riddles bit by bit.
 
I write in pictograms and stone,
I write with feathers and with bone;
I write for fame, I write for history,
I write in code and silent mystery.
 
The pain is in the shards of meaning
Piercing into mental flesh;
It’s not unlike the knife of healing
Cleaning out a wound that’s fresh.
 
I write in tones that cast a spell,
I write for heaven and for hell;
I write alive, I write when dormant,
I write in tune and script discordant.
 
The words are borrowed, begged and stolen,
Yet these words are mine to give;
The belly of my words are swollen
And, given birth, they start to live.
 
I write my muddled hero’s journey
And when I fall, words pick me up;
I write out sentences that turn me,
Questing, towards the gilded cup.
 
I write to breathe, I write to survive,
I write to believe, I write to strive;
I write to conceive, I write to thrive,
It’s writing that keeps me alert and alive.
 

Wayne Visser © 2011

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