A Writer’s Will

What truths are written in the grain of wood?

What secrets gather on the dewy parchment of supple leaves at daybreak

And with the caress of autumn’s gentle touch, are passed on to the stem through falling whispers?

What is there to be discovered, nestled away in the trees within ourselves?

With words, we can split the trunk of life and uncover its mysteries.

 

Words also gather upon me like the dew at twilight

And trickle down hidden channels to fill the pools of my caverns.

Like an unkindness of ravens, they blacken my sky and demand to be noticed.

With no other purpose than believing that forsaking the words that come alive within me

Is an act none other than betraying myself, I write.

 

Fame and accolades can drift on by, I won’t miss them.

Critics can eviscerate my work, I do not bother.

And time and history may disown me, I will not regret it.

I write simply because to do so is to devour life.

And when I do, I deceive death for a moment and I am completely free.

 

It is not desire to write that fuels me, but the necessity.

The derivation of all things that pass through me; the embodiment of my reality.

I write because it is the kiss of life.

For those who hold me dear, a chance to know me.

And because I have loved and have been loved, I write.