I sat on an oak tree twice removed from its home
Charred and carved by ghosts of charlatans past
And watched dawn awaken.
Deer in meadows of far away lands grazed on nature’s purity
While I sat on that branch and gazed at nurtured heresies
And thought about the paradoxical simplicities we crave.
Wind whirred and broke my thought as it severed my connection
with the twice removed oak.
I fell as a shard of that wise old tree
And felt a snap as I hit the ground.
My leg felt wet, it was thicker than sweat
Midnight oozed down my thigh
I reached in my pocket and pulled out my pen,
My palms blackened by ink,
I mourned it as it died
And cursed the wind for splitting my pen
Yin and Yang
Good and Evil
History was to repeat itself again
Unless I gave it the break of life
And made amends with the wind.
I sculpted my pen back to life
And again ink filled its veins
It took my hand to an empty page and wrote:
Just because we fall and we bleed,
It doesn’t mean we’re dead
Whatever’s in your head,
Let it make art with my ink.
Photographer: Leandro De Carvalho
Join me in celebrating the written word at The Poet’s Point. This is a new page I’m starting in efforts to form a community in which artists can share their work, get feedback, and inspire others. It’s a perfect place to overcome writer’s block, share your thoughts, test new content, gain an audience, and meet artists from around the world.