Prelude, Voice Aquiver
I am not content
to fade into yesterday’s
almanac, landing on a
shelf of dusty dreams,
fading to sepia tones.
I am not content
with a ribbon of gray
threading through the
needle of my existence,
stitching my life
into a burial shroud.
I am not content
to leave words unturned,
eroding into fragments
of ash gray limestone.
White chalk smeared,
scattered on a blackboard.
I am not content
with splinters of dripping
flaxen honey, wrestled from
the comb, stuck in webs
to my right hand.
I am not content
to leave syllables
unheeded,
whispers from sage
in twilight sleep:
“I carve on cavern walls
hieroglyphs of
moonblood, birth.
I paint meringue clouds
rocket fire,
blue mayhem,
fossil butte…
speak my signature,
voice aquiver.”