When the days are cold, I fill them with words;
When the nights grow weary, the lessons I’ve learned.
The names I’ve forgotten, the faces that fade,
They come back as ghosts in the stories I’ve spurned.
Instead I will sit with my chin in the shade,
My feet still basking beneath the yellow sun.
Out of words, out of song, out of reason or rhythm;
I have my own guild but it consists of no one.
Though one day I hope the music I’ve written
Will gather in black on a crackling page,
Or my pen writes without meaning, iridescent,
Like the lessons I learn yet can never engage.
Who asked for these stories that are so evanescent?
Since walking with strangers is a meaningless thing,
I asked for feathers so I could fly like a bird,
But I’ve forgotten how to arrange my plumes into wings.