A Writer
Nothing makes sense until
I’ve wrapped it in a skein of words
—Annabel Abbs
The Joyce Girl
There are so many things forgotten,
but only a mere handful remembered,
and among those unforgotten ones,
many wait, hovering on the cliff of oblivion.
If I could just collect up all the moments,
like pebbles on the beach,
before they’re buried in that great grave
of forgetting, and are washed out into the ocean
to disappear forever, I would indeed be a writer.
The moments, like jewels, like stars,
under the pressure of time would form words
that are tears, that are blood, rainbows and moonlight.
I would be naked and unashamed.
The world’s absurdity would momentarily make sense
through the prism of enduring words.
