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The Pen

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The warm blanket of a hand wraps around my body
As I am lifted
high above reality—
The blank page sings out in minor keys
But I watch an apple fall
into the lightbulb of language.

Beneath my foot appear dandelions,
the breed only seen in paintings, with perfectly shaped bulbs.
My foot begins to dance, prance
Jumping and turning
A releve here and a pirouette there
Letters intertwining
Running off from the land of Gibberish, into Civilization.

But
the Angels disperse as their bliss dissolves
A wolf’s cry of despair rings out in sudden darkness
Dandelion bulbs sprout into bullets.
Beneath the floral Earth appear Scars—
carving through the Heavens of fantasy, into the Flesh of reality.
Hurt.
The mind cries out in silence.

A deep gust of wind, a breath,
a sigh from the North
Shadows open their eyes to plain skies.
No sunshine, no rain,
But blankness has been colored in with unspoken liberation.
I lay there
and wait
for Resurrection.





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