now as I grow old
I see
I have not one thing
but words.
I love them
with a flame that grows
as I grow
to consume me
to consume the earth
I stride upon
now I grow
even older
and I see
all the more
hardly have I
a single thing,
all my possessions,
rattling dust.
I posses no beauty
I hardly get people to laugh
and my existence
only weighs heavy
on the softness of their hearts
my school work
laughable
but my words,
though small and simple
and at times unimpressive
for the most part
stand to swat and stride
upon souls
moving them and mending them
all the while.
but I am afraid
I am far too afraid
to put my whole life
pour its stream
into words that may just be
ashes in the wind
I'v tried
honestly.
I really have tried
I'v been facinaited
by neuro
micro
biology
I'v been fascinated
by
theoretical physics
but I grow old
and I cannot plaster
on
what I am not
I fall back onto the
nothingness
of the absence of everything but words
and all things prevail
I am only a writer.
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