Living In Delible
My life has been lived like practicing calligraphy.
I aim for the lines but swoop, spin and loop away
From the sanctum of those who might be called, you know,
Practical people who properly put punctuation in places
Commas belong instead of skimming along with no need
For societal stops. And pauses put in place by others.
My life, that scratching pointed calligrapher´s pen,
Has rested, curled up like a bud not bloomed, waiting.
Waiting for what is the question I ponder again.
A coupon? A code? A fresh bottle of blood red ink
To mark the inner places where my heart made choices
My head knew I would have to scrap to start over again?
Time has come to stop practicing and start living again.
I deny those editors of my daily lovings their due.
I withdraw my permissions for their entre` into my head.
Take away the lines, the rules, those so-called limits.
I´m a freshly cut nib on a newly lathed stem full of life.
I plan to live the rest of my years in India ink--indelible.