A single lasting impression,

The hinting lack of discretion

He poured into each word he never said to me.

I am simply letters from a father,

The aching heart of the waters

That tossed my mother out to sea.

Today I am but yesterday's dying breath,

The swan song I will never have the strength to sing.

This is where the notes fall off,

The sharpened tripping of palm over string.

Today I am but poetry,

And I have no choice but to fail to my senses and collapse underneath my emotions,

Letting them splay me like a withering piece of art.

It keeps me away from the absence of light,

From the yesterdays and the patterns of heartbeats,

The windows that shudder and crack down the brim,

The words that stir me through the night.

If you would ask me a question, of a succinct hint at what moves me,

I will tell you, in my own silent swan song,

That this is why I write.