Your quill into the ink bottle,
You write me to an ocean of
As the ink flows through the quill,
I open my mouth,
speaking the words forming on the page, my breath
from hope in my lungs.
as the bones rattle
joint – to – joint
into an organic outline of characters,
poised for entry into their story arc,
eyes widen as the tendonal transitions
the skeletal framework of Your prophetic narrative.
of my emotion warms their skins,
bodies awakening as blood
flush with stoic sentimentality.
before us. Again we collaborate, Your four winds bring breath from the
north, south, east and west
skies converging to create Your final poem draft
to the four corners of the earth.