Annie Louise Twitchell
Thin sheets of paper,
wood fibers
pasted together.
Black lines,
fine as baby’s hair
curious shapes
The marks
mean something,
a word,
an idea.
in trees,
my ideas
go on
longer than me.
but told
without speaking.
Held imprisoned
on the leaves
made from
long dead trees.
Aching to be released,
let fly
above the inked
and sing aloud
to the sun
the stories they were
made to tell.
Tied down
on the white sheets
so I can read them
and let them
fly in my mind.
I don’t remember what prompted this poem. I think I had a headache/migraine and was, as I often do when there is an angry troll pounding on the inside of my skull, pondering impossiblities. Words are seriously weird things. Like, I’m sitting here typing the thoughts in my head, and you’re sitting there reading and (hopefully, although this is Annie we’re talking about) understanding them. It’s just… weird. Really, really weird.
Copyright 2016 by Annie Louise Twitchell

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