|
A whisper, A word. A dream unfulfilled. My pen scraping paper, Fibers catching, Ink spreading its fingers wide Upon touching the water-marks of tears. As words penned in ink Draft with permanence the end Of what once might have been. Black on white. Lines stain paper. Begging, For what will never be, For what we might have had together, If only . . . “Rewrite that last scene! I want a happy ending!” The script could be edited, reshot, deleted scenes restored. But this is reality. No director steps forward. No writing staff drafts dialogue to improve our last scene. No set crew builds backdrops to support a different ending, One that would lead to a new beginning: The Director’s Cut. Surrounded by splinters of fractured thoughts. What mysteries, Oh Love, Might we have explored together? Confusion spins the shards of unanswered questions. Black ink spreads blotches upon white sheets. Helplessly, I am forced to write the words, My soul prays for the Universe to right itself, And make everything the way it should be. Grant me a small miracle! Restore my love to me. Restore my life’s-heart. My soul’s twin. Forgive my mistakes, my blind stumbling through reality, Allow them to be reversed. Allow the compassion of a wisdom greater than mine To prevail. Let all the fatal errors be dissected, And gently washed away. Let them swirl down the drain, With the blood leaked from other broken hearts. Please! Let me begin again. Even the faintest whisper of a word, Or the smallest speck of ink spotting paper, Anything That might sound like, Or look like,  |