Writing Space

Oh the usual mundane decorations

A desk, a chair, a writing tablet

Dust, papers, and a ticking clock

Me…a particle, empty pulp, and passing


I have insisted that it travel with me

Snapshots of captured moments cry out

Piles of tasks wait for attention

Shelves of guidebooks whisper


A charm of luck tipped on its side

An elephant with beads too heavy

A silent box of stained cherry

That grinds of masquerades when opened


A stolen emblem from my first taste of freedom

One of the few parts left untouched in the wreckage

The smooth lime radio that must warm up to be heard

It crackles, hums, and echoes


The images that remind of me

Have no faces

I have never noticed that before

Father, brother, husband, daughter…they all have faces


A memory, a reminder, a revelation

Books on healing, awakening, and death

A stapler and its nemesis on different shelves

Permanent and dry erase markers dangerously commingle


How long has that drawer been open?

~ by April on July 7, 2012.

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