What does it mean
to write?
Is it an exhalation—the birth of something
onto the swirling sands of the Earth?
What compels
the heart to swim through the violent currents
within itself,
and to pour what springs,
into a cup lined with stars?
Piously, the writer waits—
watching for what emerges
from sparkling
uncertainty…
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Now arises the Word.
It is the god of the human soul,
and its truth echoes across tide and surge.
It is a wonder,
how it pools into the fragile spaces
under the night sky—everywhere
that reverberates with the rough strum of life
and sleeps under the tender flute sigh of death.
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Somehow, when this Word is born,
its lyric life swells within the heartbeats of the globe—
Nothing is ever silent.
No sea is ever barren.
What it means
to write
is to cast away one’s shell
and bare
one’s luminosity.