Updated: Oct 1
With whose stolen pen is it my hand writes?
On my page, where art and theft lie so blurred:
From an unlived life, rich with unseen sights,
Of tales yet untold and best left unheard.
I scour pale streets, dredge gutters for a thought,
To steal a city’s aches I’ve yet to feel,
To speak from the heart, knowing brittle naught,
To wear our home, crushing, as my ordeal.
Bestrode two lands, I chart a middling path,
That none I seek to call peers likely walked,
Steeped in mildness, devoid of poor luck’s wrath,
I tread freely, where better folk were blocked.
I beg this pen roar home’s pains unspoken,
Lest my voice permit silence unbroken.