Written, not yet Writ

Pouring frazzled words onto

Digital paper

Quill in my own blood

Hardly plucked

From a falcon’s wing

Only my own

Tortured imagination

Obsession with fiction

Becomes fascination with fact

But truly

The latter came first

And now I carefully

Build a wall between them

Brick by imaginary brick

A mental dam

The floods pushing, cracking

Tiny trickles teasing over the top



Sigh in relief

Listen, you’ve done your work

Commitments met

Thanks given

And this fascination

This fascination held since you were

Your daughter’s age

Is natural and holds

No contract.

So why do I feel

Like I could dip this

Quill in my own blood

And sign off right now

To the Falcon; the Mare: the Giant

Ice and Fire incarnate

Mischief manifest

Chaos eternal.

But I take a breath


And for one more day

I simply don’t.

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