Limit
Encased within, several
intersecting lines of tension
limit me
to an arc of movement
emotionally ballpointed;
scraping at the paper while
in
reaching out
across the surfaces of times
I would rather rejoice, but
stab forcefully folds together
one crumpled ball of defeat.
Edging towards the flower.
A taste so violently sweet
of pen and of ink, of purpose
reworked and worthy of notice.
Of intention to chase
reward for the sake of reward
in that new face, I throw
the forgotten lines
of chances
untaken.
by Gareth Rosser |