A writer’s morphing

i write more than i speak, only because I am mute, by choice. i may not be a great writer. i know i am not a good writer. At best i am a poor pretender. 

Shards of glass and polished stones.
Bowls of nuts and shells are plenty.
It is the words i’ve lost, i find.
i’m left bleeding and yet, being refined.
Lately it is the shards of glass i pick up,
my intent, to cut loose the string.
Bare with it, soul,
do not give up the blanket
that keeps you warm.

3 thoughts on “A writer’s morphing

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