to speak of words, writing, brokenness
pour over her,
an ointment soothing wounds,
And her pain is my song,
the one I sang for years when cuts ran up and down arms
and tears were the only regular nourishment I had,
when heart was frozen, icy pond in bleakest winter cold
and voices that tried to help made head pound.
Played on damaged heart strings, a melody of broken sounds,
and I hear the music again,
pouring forth from her desperate soul,
longing to give her Peace words,
but I, like Moses, am of ineloquent speech,
my words burst out a jumbled mess,
never saying what I meant to say.
I turn to only tool I know,
pen and paper,
and I write the story I know best,
and I end it with the only Hope there is,
the only real happy ending,
which has made me this mosaic that I am.
And she reads words my mouth cannot speak,
her teary-eyed stare linking us, two broken lives joined
by words of common heartache and redemption.
I do not know why I write,
why He has made my heart speak in ink,
I only know that I must,