Disquiet

This is another page
in the book of disquiet

the trembling reaches the hand
before the first word
and Fancy drags it away
from the paper
to draw winds and wants
on the curves of dry air

my skin absorbs the dryness
and with every bend
I hear the cracks
from somewhere deep inside

what is it that breaks
that wasn't already broken?

maybe the deluge I hold back
dried up and seeped into the bloodstream

if writers do bleed in words
I have bled too often
too little, perhaps

fate draws me up

with a free hand

maybe there is nothing left to comprehend

somebody forgot to mention
how comfortable ignorance could be