I don't want to write out any words with a pen
on compiled sheets of paper soaked with memoirs,
mighty, in all their stagnant glory,
when the ink of my life is the love in my blood.
And i must draw it out from the soul,
my spirit dancing as it ascends through the air like smoke
Only then will it radiate from my marrow to the outermost parts of my body,
with the lesson for all to see being the essence of my heart-driven lungs
that emerges from the passionate fire of my core.
Messy as it is, in the end may my story be like a song.
like the music from atop a hill
reminding all of the wind that swiftly brushes its transparent fingertips against the harp on the summit of the mountains
whispering striking, yet delicate melodies
And if the wind is violent instead,
like grass that springs up even after it is trodden on,
may i too, be set up high upon a rock.
May I be a fruitful component of this cacophonous ditty that is the human experience
even in places beyond the ability of barren eyes