I started out as a vagabond poet,
afraid for the weary, tangled world
to see my wounded words
and hear past the silence of my sharpened tongue
tattered on creased pages, scarred and covered
with countless tubes of spilled ink,
and letters blurred, grouted and stained,
between the concealed remnants of faded tears.
As I wandered,
I sought to render each strayed potholed mark altered
to the naked, untrained eye,
with all my peccadillos
artfully erased or disguised,
still by my side, as I traveled down chiseled lonely highways.
Was I the only one
who knew how torn and damaged I really was,
under that restored facade?
One who used words as glue to mend,
then uncover my itinerant soul,
and exfoliate my heart,
hoping the brushed toxins would flow
from the inside out,
and all the pain would be released
through my gritty, vagabond fingers
onto the beautiful freedom of a clean, empty page,
that only time and travel would eventually kiss and smudge with age.
© Connie Song 2021. All Rights Reserved.
