Work of a Poet.

She scrawls sentences
On scattered scraps
Of paper
Inscribing shreds of soul
Indented in the looping lines
That slowly fill
With rivers of ink
The scraps are piled high
A veritable mountain
An anthology
Of points of view
Each a pair of eyes
Looking eternally
At a portion of the horizon
That unreachable dream
Quivering in the sunrise
And unraveling slowly
Against the half-light of twilight
Each scrap sketching
A face of its own
The face that floats in
The restless dreams
Of a nation
She writes gilded mirrors
That startle people
As they see their eyes
Looking back
From the looping script
Their eyes
And that horizon
Edging away from their dreams
Their face
And the face that haunts
Their softened moments
She sighs a scrawled line
And lets the scrap slip
Sliding silently to the ground
Another snippet of soul
Safe in the shelter
Of the written word