I must write again.
I’m not of these mortal sticks
that ooze ink and stink.
Mine is His, I His paragon.
It’s His; it’s mine to keep.
So I must write again.
I ran, I ran from it. It remained a contagion,
still, for me to keep.
Till my demise.
I must write again,
for at my being flows a dark paste
Of ink I thought dry, of a forgotten past.
To grave I easily consign, His.
I stopped writing
and gave my pen, and stopped giving.
And so began the engraving of many a headstone.
I’m now but flesh, mortal thrones
It’s all of iron, of gold
What’s His for me to keep is of the gods
and when this pulse and life cracks open, I will write again.
This stone of thoracic vertebra and rib,
this stone of sternum and costal cartilage will roll.
And on the third day, I will write again.