Simulacrum bonsai spirit shining bright,
tendril bushings famously tiny
sit so perfectly tight.
Clipped to stand proudly small,
deficiency rests on laurels deep inside
where no one fears the height
but is aware of the fall.
Watered down trivia the company kept,
guessing games fuel creativity
while vices rumble and trouble
until tranquility arrives, envelops and sets.
Your ghost is born on silent words,
freedom found out where they fly
unbound from earth by roots,
out in the open air
where birds sing and lost men die.
The tails on most all the letters go wavy, curl left
to a place they’re drawn to instead of from.
Many, however, jut down aggressively as though engraved,
digging trenches in the flesh of pulped tree skin.
Some lay delicate and feminine in their perfect order
others are hewn out with unkempt urgency and demand.
Each flourish, keystone whimsy given form
holding tight the lines, the words, the sentences.
Reviewing the ink gives eyes a chance to wander
pages strewn with discordant emotional ink stains.
The beauty in being fractured as a human being
is that you speak in many voices while seeking to find you own.