I can only give you my imperfect words
distorted from frail letters
that I engineer without integrity
into crumbling steps.
I am not the editor
and they are all I have
alternating back and forth
driving direction or none
taunting me by braving new territory
then dissolving into blankness.
There is no space to bloom
beneath the boiling clouds
and I am not the editor.
I can’t trust myself
with those precious embers
woven from the colours of my soul.
So I leave them to breathe in your safe hands.
Photo credit: Julie Jordan Scott, Creative Commons