thousand excuses

 

A thousand excuses just to write a single line

Of longing—the kind that pierces the heart

Like a blade.

Deep inside,

I sit high on the mountain peak.

Deep inside,

I spin in a trance,

weaving my own silken cocoon.

Suspended somewhere

among the resting place of words.

Beyond,

in an endless space,

in the vastness of silence,

cradled inside a poem written in no book.

I begin to speak.

Drop by drop.

The worn-out pieces of my heart.

The whisper of the self

within myself.

Damon

May 27, 2009

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