Reawakened
Years this pen lay still, awash in silty dust and dormant ambitions.
But perhaps it is truly my life blood, from finger tips to the end of the utensil.
Here is the crossroad of life and death, practical numbness and irrational livelihood
I think it is this juncture that is truest for me, a place to both look back and look forward.
A creature between, always been an innocent and an old soul, an overtrusting cynic.
But my blood has run cold, and I fear it will be the end of me.
Prick the flesh, and let the oxygen in, cleanse the toxins out
Let red cells pool and pulse and pump out the complacency,
And pump through the very marrows of my bones the bitter salve of life.
