Nomad Writer

Blunted edges and blotched lines
Inked sinews and paper-thin fibers
Slippery threads of skin;
Obsidian-soft and raw–
The composition of thoughts
And their infrangible pulse
Carved upon the faceless white,
Where understanding may be found
Within forbearing flutters,
Always seem clumsy and without purpose
At first;
Like formless ideations
Writhing out of nothingness
Feebly grasping
Toward a sense of cohesion
Wrapped in cursive streams
That begin and end
Again and again–
Not in futility
But until the palpable essence
Of the soul
Is breathed to life
In words
Trailing
An eternal flame