eleison
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Self Portraitperched on a stool, armed with pen
(mightier then the sword, they say)
she starts about it in the usual way
stumbling awkwardly over the phrasing
a bad start, out of practice
the crumpled paper misses its destination
metal waste basket denied a meal
new page, fresh start
a pause, a silence,
an unwillingness to mar the emptiness
to scrap it away, like the previous
but everything came from nothing, yes?
her pen nags, calling upon chapter and verse
flawed somethings are better then nothings
sweeter to the tongue, more real
not so unearthly as the uncreated earth
she starts about it in the usual way
stumbling awkwardly over the phrasing
a new start, out of practice
she tumbles onward, embracing each mistake
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