Rip me and make me bleed till I see through the mist of my life. I reach a hand out and peel back the lines of the last few minutes as they hang like notes of music in the wind. I play with the stanzas and make my story sing a far greater song than living ever knew. My hand hangs in the wind orchestrating my next steps with a pen that has always been my baton. Or has it been a wand as I create the images of my mind. I don’t know the answer. I just write.


8 thoughts on “44.1

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