My wings clipped and caged. My lips hermetically sealed.
My memory jogged.
The ancients revealed the muscle of the written word.
What would I do without the page to read,
the pen to write, the keys to press my hieroglyphics?
What would I become without canvas and brushstrokes
to paint the honey-speckled dawn?
The sea beckons to the fisherman
and I am drawn to the beauty of the sea.
I step out into the margins,
my life feral
and precious,
redundant,
reset, recycled,
content in moments of serenity.