We were writers once

We were writers,

Once.

Nouveau acoustic,

to crowds of eyes;

hoping to be understood

and maybe not.

Before pens became needles

stitching instead

our minds with verse

colourless repeats

threadbare, brief

crissing crosses

unlearning mama’s...

naive at 23.

And,

so we are

tremulous no more;

Like,

dust stains

on leaves-

on ice-

patches like disparaging concaves

filled with vapours

of failing rain.

Nothing to say?

Bleached shut:

Here rests a writer

Her words beating.