Reason

That is why I create:

to ameliorate

the shade of being alone.

So that when chill rolls down my spine,

I don't feel cold,

I hear notes.

Such that every drop of rain,

and every snowflake

which falls upon my face,

is not felt alone.

But with the shadow of metaphor,

warm to my bones.

Because if shadows and shadows only

are to be

what accompany me;

then I would rather relinquish,

rather tell myself:

they are liberating.

But this is just one reason of many

just one symptom of a plenty.

That I have felt since childhood's hour

and thereafter knelt

in reverence of its power.

It is a wound which tears us apart

yet binds us all.

Singularly separated,

irrevocably connected.

And that is why

while you hold the hand of another

I grasp pen and feather.

When you taste blood

from love bites,

I wash off ink

stains from last night.

But it's no tragedy,

not a sad, theatrical ending.

Some play their characters,

while others are their own.

Some go from heart to heart to heart,

while I make mine my own home.