in the light of a new day, I stepped
out of those relentless gray whispers
soaked with futility and doubts, and welcomed
the weave and smell of a clear page.
it was so long since the last chapter had begun;
the one who started it looks foreign, out of place.
the same handwriting perseveres to inhabit
yet another tale of continuation, survival, change.
circles and destinies mash together, making
as little and as much sense as imagination unfurls.
our books are perfected patterns, too swift for
one-legged grasp, running free in fields of chance.
in the newborn light I greeted the dripping ink:
lot’s sticky fingers led my hand to pour out
a hopeful phrase. paragraphs away from brand new scrapes
I drew in, with vigor, smells of fresh commence.