6/2 in The Writer

Carry on Polaris, I would follow-
stumble through rooted forests
black and earthen, soil rich as gold.

This arc was clearly outlined,
fated, ensnared- two ships not passing
but crashing in the raven night and waters.

I would ensue, even the ashen wastes-
your North Star voice urged ever onward.
We built this story from the ground up,
buried it in the every day every things.
Nurtured over cups of coffee
and late night worries.

It is uprooting the land now,
the force of it demands to be told.
My heart is like a dog fight,
warring between deferential and bared teeth.

Planted in the oppressive heat of a southern summer,
transplanted to the biting northern winters,
dug deep into the loam and established.

Wore your crown for appearances,
you laid down at the drawbridge, I drew it up.
You kept looking for the altar, I dug you a moat.
I would not balk from a dreamless night.

You brave the sable seas, when I am the squall,
mentor me, when my wrath brings down the wildwood.
I see you, challenging the storm
until I am belly up and spent.

Last updated June 02, 2017