With Only Words

It is a most vulnerable and intemperate act
To believe myself a writer, to bare my
Heart and soul to you my fellow mortal,
With vowels, consonants, and temerity,
Trusting in a mere line of written symbols
To carry the intensity of my heart to yours.

And yet a thousand feet above the rocks of oblivion,
As if mesmerized by my passion to create
By sowing the seed of my soul in intercourse with life,
I step out onto thin air holding only the parts of speech,
Hoping to safely cross this precipitous chasm while
Balancing on an ephemeral thread of words.

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© 2019 Thomas B. Fideler

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