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.
You may comment below…