Yet another melodramatic Final Poem
When did my words abandon me? My pencil flipped from my palm and colour came from my fingertips and it
I used to be a blacksmith, wordsmith, except it was so natural, so gentle, like milk and honey spilling from my mind.
Oozing, leaking, bleeding emotive imagery. I could make your mind go places with but a hint.
Listen: remember pools of orange lamplight with the hand of a lover?
Remember lines and lines of text or powder or splits in the skin of what it means to be
Remember the whiplash
of my changing rhythms?
Listen: I once could make the voice in your head do whatever I wanted. Like this: we're having a conversation now.
How's the weather?
How's your mother?
How's this for an attempt at befriending words again?