As I lay in the heart of my rickety old bed
thinking the thoughts in my half clearing head
happy to be a prisoner of life,
pleased that I am not a cold dead thing.
I wonder sometimes if I am flat,
a minstrel with only one song,
a prisoner with a penalty yet to be paid.
Like the bird trapped alone in his cell.
A wing, with a cracked spine, sheltering a dream.
I want the new words, new secrets,
unknown, uncovered, exposed.
I want to capture the racing thoughts of dreams
and be their scribe before they escape.
Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing – Benjamin Franklin