We spend our days in verse and reason out
the thoughts that spin within, without, and through
our heads of living stone; the hopes and doubts
that color us: from rainbows through the blues.
We render faithfully. We bleed in ink
and spread ourselves in calligraphic gore
to save the splash before we dare to blink;
the things we feel may walk right out the door.
Remembering may hurt, but we remain
with pens in hand. Though memory’s a bitch
we dwell with him and dive into the pain
to scratch the wounds and satisfy the itch
that God has set in us. The words will burn
and pass like kidney stones. But still we churn.
