When You Write

Your scribblings, rough, misshapen, premature

Blink timidly under harsh sunlight

And then retreat into their cocoon

You lose them, and you do not know you lose them

But they remain, waiting to open

Like night flowers under a half-done moon.

Your scribblings get wet sometimes, don’t they?

Moisten, smudged under tears that I only dream of

They struggle inside the labyrinth of your mind

Buried under the weight of guilt unaccepted

And consciences unclean

Like thieves, or uncrowned kings carrying crosses.

Did you know that I can read your scribblings?

Somewhere between what you, and your eyes say

They flicker like candles in thunderstorms

But if I am careful, I can cradle them between my palms

Lift them up, and carry them back with me

And scribble under their intimate glow.


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