I write because I find it difficult to breath, without.
This writing is a hand held out - to other people,
to accept, or not.
As for myself, I'm not that important, but you could find me other places, too.
on and on and on, on and on
would there have been time for such a word?
the steal from the blade, dropped and buried down
rust and rusting brown, sword is another noun
dropped today to be found; tomorrow and tomorrow,
re-sharpened edging, a new hand and blood
again the cutting, red flowing edge to the sky, sleeping beneath it.
cowers under the sun; a warrior
to steal breath from the morning's common fog.