I sit writing in my book,
Like wet branches bowed over
My face a part of each page,
The pen tracing its fixed path
From edge to edge, line to line,
Treading softly around wounds
Best unrecalled and unwrit.
The only sound in my room
The crackle of the paper
Being flipped over and over
As I seek surcease in me,
But the pouring of my heart

Into such a little space,
Overflows past the margins–
Sea walls of my artifice.

 

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© G. Eraclides 2008 2016