The Messenger

I think back days, try months, then years

to times when I first shed real tears

To moments that I’d want to last

To ghosts of people in my past

Liquid thoughts race through my veins

to sink onto the open page

Burning, begging to break free

from silent, rotting secrecy

My granite mind, My inky thoughts

collect in lines in curves and dots

Winding, curving down the lines

squeezed through margins half their size

My own pensieve, a looking glass

to view times spent in my own past

To mark in stone the raw felt truth

of what we’ll all dismiss as youth

A messenger for little me

A mentor for who I will be

                                                       A friend to those who need a light

                                                           And that, I’d say, is why I write