Once aspirated,
some words are thoughtless, even reckless.
Once designated,
words linger,
gyrating, instigating,
unevaporated.
I wake in the middle of the night
a distracted mind so restless,
weighted
contemplative
insatiated,
with a pen that can pierce paper,
bleeding words until they taint parchment
stained with ink.
We are architects
of destruction
unnecessarily.
We can rebuild
from beams of moondust
and prefabricated intentions
a psyche once indented,
torn
or shattered,
knowing what can be renovated and mended
is totally within our control.
Or so it would seem
even when the soul is precariously splitting from its seams.
© Connie Song 2023. All Rights Reserved.
