Of wounds and words
Words that flow
Like life-giving streams
Pour sustenance and care
Into our most harrowing dreams.
Yet what if one day
They just disappear?
What then do writers do?
What then will stem our fear?
I shudder to think
If cometh the day
I no longer can write
Knowing not what to say.
For words are to writers
What honey are to bees
What children are to parents
What roots are to trees.
Without my words
Will a writer I still be?
Without my words
Will my bondage be free?
I shudder to think
If cometh that day
My childhood wounds heal
But my words they flutter away!
So I cling fast to wounds
Tho’ pain and grief they bringeth
For only in sorrow and strife
Can the salve of words healeth!
